β
Time froze, every detail searing itself into memory. Lorenβs tie tack was a little crooked, and the gel that kept his blonde hair immaculate was losing its hold. He didnβt look as though heβd just held a long, suspicious meeting so much as just awakened from a nap. In any other context, Buster might have found it funny, but here, in an empty conference room, with the sudden fluorescent lights stabbing at his eyes, the effect was terrifying. Any words he could have knitted together fled for the dark corners of the room, hiding under his spilled papers, in the spaces between the furniture and the floorboards, behind the heavy maroon drapes at the windows. He opened his mouth anyway, and even the start of a stammer died in his throat as his breath stalled out.
β
β
A.K. D'Onofrio (From the Desk of Buster Heywood)