A pillow hits my back.
“You wish.”
“You were the one staring.”
I don’t bother hiding my grin as I pull on jeans, shirt, socks. The borrowed deodorant smells like cedar and questionable decisions, but it beats eau de corpse. I even find a travel-size cologne that doesn’t smell like someone’s dad.
I give Skippy a couple sprays for charity.
He still stinks. Even with the window cracked, the AC blasting arctic air, and the body zipped tight in a sleeping bag, the cabin has a distinct kick. The kind of scent that saysyes, someone here is deadbut tries to be polite about it.
Saint’s already stretched out on her bed, eyes on the ceiling, fingers laced behind her head. Fresh from her shower, she ditched the headband and let her hair spread wild. I’ve always liked her hair. One of those details you don’t forget about Saint James.
Among other things.
I climb onto the bed across from hers, sit with my ankles crossed and my arms folded. Guard mode. Comfortable enough to pretend this is normal.
“Get some sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll stay up and keep an eye on the kid.”
She scoffs and rolls over, giving me her back.
“Good night, Saint.”
She lifts a hand and flips me off without looking.
I laugh under my breath. “Good night, Skippy.”
Then I dim the lights, settle in, and let the rhythm of the tracks carry us forward while I keep watch over a corpse, a woman who might kill me in my sleep, and whatever the hell waits for us in Chicago.
Iabsolutely fell asleep.
I know I did because Saint kicks the hell out of my boot and my whole spine tries to escape my body.
“What the?—”
“Something’s wrong, Sleeping Beauty.” she snaps.
She yanks open the cabin curtains. The dawning light outside crawls past us—too slow. Train-creeping-through-a-haunted-rail-yard slow.
Weapons are in our hands before either of us consciously reaches for them. Muscle memory. Kill first, ask questions never.
I crack the cabin door open and peek out.
Nothing.
Not good nothing.
Wrongnothing.
The hallway is empty. Silent. No passengers, no hushed conversations, no snoring tourists. Just the hum of the slowing train and the distant clack of metalon metal.
I check the window. We’re rolling through some kind of industrial graveyard—giant warehouses, shipping containers stacked like metal tombstones, floodlights still on despite the rising sun.
Every instinct I have lights up.
“We need to go,” I say.
“No shit.”
