Chapter 22

• Isabella.
• I stared at the blinking cursor. That smug, blinking little bastard sitting there like it had all the time in the world. And maybe it did. Maybe the cursor didn’t care that I’d rewritten the same sentence seven times in the last hour and still couldn’t find a version that didn’t sound like something an eighth grader would turn in for extra credit.
• I closed the laptop, opened it again. Nothing. There was no spark. There was no voice in my head whispering what comes next. There was only blank walls and a stuffy brain and the faint whiff of desperation that smelled an awful lot like burnt coffee and self-pity.