Misa sighed, sitting back on the couch and rereading the notes she had written on the back of Torren’s scrapped report. The fire within a nearby lamp danced, smooth and quiet, losing its intensity as the early morning light greeted it from the window.
She had scribbled out words and rewrote her thoughts several times, resulting in a rather…tangled mess of black strings rather than any coherent brainstorming. How did Royle do it? How did he put all the pieces together to use to his own advantage without so much as lifting a pen?
“Misa? Is that you?”
Torren peeked from behind a corner, hair disheveled from sleep. He rubbed his eyes and squinted against the brightening light. “You’re up early. What are you up to?”
“Hethel is here.” Misa crumpled the paper and threw it
