“You know,” Liz said, setting down her mug, “the scariest thing isn’t dying. It’s being forgotten.”
“You’re late again,” said a woman’s voice.
“You’ve got fifty-six seconds, Detective. Don’t blink.”
Liz Young. She was pouring coffee, wearing a worn UCB sweatshirt, her brown hair tied back. She wasn’t an actress. She felt real —every micro-expression, the way she bit her lip while stirring.