Chapter 22 Brooklyn Phantom

• "Don't touch it," Casian growled, his long fingers snapping around her wrist before her nail could scrape the glossy surface of the photograph.
• The air in the empty boardroom went dead quiet, suddenly feeling thin and sharp enough to cut. Outside, a flock of pigeons scattered off the glass spire of a neighboring skyscraper, but inside, neither of them moved.
• Megan didn't pull her hand back from his grip. She stared down at the crisp black-and-white print resting on the walnut table. The image was grainy, taken through the dusty window of her old ground-floor apartment on Atlantic Avenue. She remembered that rain-soaked Tuesday three years ago. She had been brewing a concentrated extract of white willow bark and ginger root—the natural anti-inflammatory mixture she used to soothe Arthur’s chronic joint pain before he hired her full-time.