I stare at the small brown pill sitting on my kitchen counter like it might explode at any moment.
Aiden has been gone for two hours. The smell of those herbs still lingers in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of burned electronics from my ruined induction cooker.
I pick up the pill and roll it between my fingers. It's surprisingly solid, with a smooth surface that almost seems to pulse with warmth.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself.
But something stops me from throwing it in the trash. Maybe it's the absolute certainty in Aiden's voice when he told me what it could do. Or maybe it's the way he looked when I suggested he needed psychiatric help – like I'd just stabbed him in the heart.
I've known Aiden since junior high. Even then, he was different. Quiet. Observant. Like he could see things the rest of us couldn't.
My phone buzzes. A text from my assistant at the Heavenly Justice Group.
