Why else would he be in such a hurry? As Emily stretched and yawned, I turned my wrist to see the glowing numerals of my Chronofighter watch. It was still early, only 9:30 p.m. “The house is shaking again,” she joked. “My imagination?” I leaned to kiss the woman’s cheek, then behind her ear, feeling a welling sensation within my chest that was not unknown to me but so rare and long ago that I was startled. I was also dubious, instantly on alert. That same thoracic response is probably why sappy poets associate the heart with love. I had just met this woman, knew very little about her. To feel what I was feeling, after only a few hours together, was irrational. Not that love is ever rational. “It’s Tomlinson,” I said. “Something must be wrong.” There was. “Tula sent me a text,” Tomlinson told me as I pushed aside the bedroom curtain, shirtless, buckling my belt. I noticed that his hand was shaking as he combed fingers through his John Lennon hair. “He’s got her, Doc.
