Ava was once again staring into nothingness.
Her fingers kept flicking her spoon against the edge of her plate in a rhythmic, increasingly threatening tempo that sounded like a ticking bomb made of silverware and repressed emotion.
The untouched vegetables on her plate were now a mosaic of leafy rejection, having been pushed, flipped, stacked, and artistically impaled in a series of passive-aggressive food sculptures.
Her jaw tightened.
She was one spoon-twitch away from flipping the entire dinner table like a medieval queen who had just been informed the peasants were revolting again.
It was supposed to be dinner. It had potatoes, for crying out loud. But once again—Zach was nowhere to be seen.
He hadn't called. Hadn't texted. Hadn't even sent a carrier pigeon with a cold, emotionally repressed note.
For all she knew, he was:
1. Actually working which is somehow less believable than...
2. Murdering Zeke in an alley behind a jazz bar
