Edward's Point Of View
The steering wheel felt like a block of ice under my sweating palms. I didn't drive back to our own house; I couldn't. My brain was a tangled mess of electrical shorts and blown fuses, thoughts sparking and dying before they could form anything coherent. The familiar roads blurred past, landmarks I'd known for decades suddenly unrecognizable through the haze of shock. Instead, I veered toward the main Moore estate, the tires screeching a protest that mirrored the screaming in my head.
The silence inside the car was thick, suffocating, as though we were all trapped in a vacuum where even breathing felt like an act of defiance. Cynthia sat rigid beside me, transformed into a statue, her gaze fixed out the side window at the passing shadows of the Texas night.
