An explosion echoed across the bay. The reports of the aftershock caught against the flank of the building, rebounded along the rough edges of coastline, rippling back into the car park like discussions of bad news. On his drive along the coast, Mitchell had passed the turning for a quarry, the trucks grimed with white earth overtaking him along the road. Now, as he sat in the car in a vacant car park, drumming his hand against the wheel, the explosions acted as an imperfect time signature. One, two. Three. Four.
In one of the windows of the apartment building, he’d noticed a figure moving, distorted and epicene behind the glass. It had passed once or twice, but now lingered in the space behind the tall framing oblong. Mitchell wondered if this was Hopper brought by the sound of the explosion, checking the view from his window, on edge, expectant. It satisfied him to think that Hopper might have spent the last two years feeling, of all things, hunted.
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Absence Club 