The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 408

Late into the quiet night, a sleek gray hybrid pulled up outside the apartment buildings of Emerald Grove.

The headlights flicked off, the engine dying into silence, leaving only a thin layer of mist on the windows from the evening's passing shower. The car door swung open, and a man stepped out into the dark.

Garrison Foster leaned against the side of the car, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He slipped one between his lips, ducking his head as he sparked his lighter.

A brief flash of orange illuminated the darkness before fading, leaving a trailing wisp of pale gray smoke rising from his fingers. The night breeze caught it, stretching the smoke into a thin line that dissolved beneath the dim, yellow glow of the streetlamp.

He tipped his head back, looking up.

On the eighth floor, a single window glowed with a warm, golden light.

The old-fashioned steel window grids cast a cross-shaped shadow against the sheer, light-colored curtains.

He could just make out a slender silhouette—a woman sitting by the window, head bowed over a book. She turned a page occasionally, her movements slow, as if she were savoring every word.

The light cascaded from above, wrapping her in a soft, honeyed glow. In the pitch-black sprawl of the run-down apartment complex, that window was like a tiny star suspended in the sky.

Garrison leaned against the door, his gaze fixed on that window while the cigarette burned quietly between his fingers.

Ash gathered at the tip, but he didn't flick it away. The night wind swept past, lifting the corner of his unbuttoned shirt, yet he remained perfectly still.

In his mind, Rosemary Hayes's shrill voice echoed from his office: "She's not dead! She's right here in this hospital, and plenty of people saw her!"

If Rosemary knew, what about the others?

The woman Quinn Foster had met before her death, the insider Wyatt Young suspected, and the unseen hands pulling the strings from the shadows...

Those people were still lurking in the dark, and their eyes were fixed on Sloane.

She couldn't remain a ghost anymore.

She needed an identity. A clean, undeniable, public identity.

His mentor was the man he trusted most in this world. Without him, Garrison wouldn't be where he was today. He had no right to harbor such filthy suspicions.

And right now, his mentor was the only one who could help.

Garrison crushed his cigarette out in a small tin box he carried, climbed back into the driver's seat, and picked up his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over a name for a few long seconds before he finally hit dial.

It rang four times before connecting.

A somewhat aged but warm, familiar voice came through the speaker.

"Garrison? What a surprise. Is something the matter?"

"Professor Sterling," Garrison kept his voice perfectly even, though his left hand tightened unconsciously around the steering wheel. "Could I buy you a cup of coffee tomorrow afternoon?"

Lawrence Sterling chuckled, the sound hearty and fond: