The rooftop of the villa was flat and empty, with deck chairs nobody used because everyone preferred the pool or the balcony or the beach. It was the one place in the house where you could be truly alone, and I'd been going up there at night when the insomnia got bad, lying on my back and watching the muted Miami stars and trying to turn my brain off the way the System kept telling me to.
Claire found me at midnight. She was slightly drunk — not stumbling, not slurring, just loosened enough that the tactical composure had soft edges. She had a glass of wine in her hand and bare feet on the concrete and she sat down in the chair beside mine with the unguarded ease of a woman who'd stopped performing for the night.
"You're up here again," she said.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You never sleep. I've been monitoring your sleep patterns for three years. You average four hours a night. That's not sustainable, Jake."
"Are you monitoring my sleep?"
