The condensation on the bathroom mirror was the only thing between Evie Barrett and the face that half the city of Marlow woke up to every evening. She wiped the glass with the back of her hand. The reflection was tired. Not the "up-all-night-chasing-a-lead" tired that won Emmys. This was "three-days-into-a-vacation-that-feels-like-work" tired. Isla Verde. The resort cost more per night than her first car. The air smelled of hibiscus and money. It was supposed to be a celebration—three years as the youngest evening anchor at WVBN, and finally, a week off with Dorian. Evie tightened the belt of her silk robe. She needed sleep. She needed the Ambien sitting in her toiletry bag. She walked into the bedroom. The air conditioning hummed, a low, artificial winter battling the Caribbean heat outside. Dorian was already in bed. The duvet was pulled up to his waist, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that used to comfort her. Now, it just annoyed her. He could sleep anywhere. Evie needed blackout curtains and absolute silence. She sat on the edge of the mattress. Her phone sat on the mahogany nightstand, face down. The rule was simple: No screens after 10 PM. It was Dorian’s rule. He said she was addicted to the news cycle. He was right. But the phone buzzed. Not a ring. A single, violent vibration against the wood. Evie ignored it. Probably a producer back