Nash
I don’t know what it was about Daphne Redhawk. As much as I heard the alarms in my head signaling danger ahead, as much as I kept telling myself to keep a distance, I also kept circling back to her. And it wasn’t enough just to watch her from afar, I had to keep engaging her. It was a dangerous game.
I followed her to the scene of the attack. I could have stayed in the shadows, and simply kept watch, if concern for her safety was really my motivation. But she was right, there was little danger in broad daylight with a fair crowd of morbid rubberneckers and legitimate mourners milling around the place.
But I felt I had to talk to her, I had to touch her. Every time I was within a hundred feet of the woman, I felt a compulsion to touch her, even if it was only to put a hand on
