'The worst part was, if Murphy had gone and been easily subdued, then he, who was now implicated...'
Anvil didn't dare to think any further.
He stood up, walked to the window, and gazed out at the sky as it slowly began to lighten.
The streets were empty in the early morning, save for the occasional homeless person curled up in a corner, looking like a pile of tattered burlap sacks.
Anvil grew increasingly uneasy.
That uneasiness was like an invisible hand gripping his heart, tightening its hold bit by bit.
He didn't know what was going to happen.
But he knew something had already happened.
Time ticked by, second by second.
The horizon in the East began to turn a pearly white, then a faint orange-red, and finally a dazzling gold.
The Sun rose.
Anvil remained at the window. He hadn't slept all night; his eyes were bloodshot, and dark stubble dotted his chin.
He stared toward the manor, waiting.
There was no movement.
Still nothing.
