Tyler Street looked as though it hadnât changed a bit since the last time Byron had been there. Same sidewalk cafe. Same trendy womanâs clothing store across the street. Same classy jazz club next door to that. It had been a year since heâd been there, and everything was perfectly in place.
Stepping past the jazz club and clothing store, he heard a high-pitched whimper in the background, rising above the trafficâs din. It sounded wounded, almost angry. Like a dying goose.
Checking the faces of other pedestrians, he wonders why nobody else seemed to notice the sound. They all kept walking, faces casual. Nobody was curious about that tortured wail.
Byron shrugged it off, figuring he was just imagining it. Maybe he was distracted by the grim mission that lay ahead of him.
He took a seat at the sidewalk cafe, checking the time and rehearsing words in his head heâd already repeated more times than he cared to recall.
Itâs not you. Itâs me. I just donât think Iâm...