He leans forward, bracing his arms on the steering wheel. His voice drops.
“You shouldn’t be,” he says. “Intel only matters if you know how to use it.”
His eyes keep moving, tracking every detail, every shadow, every car, every twitch down the street.
“And in this case, that job belongs to you.”
I shift in my seat.
“Yeah, well,” I say, “I’m pretty confident I can just slip into the void this time. So odds are, I won’t need intel at all.”
He turns to me. I swear there’s still a faint shine on his lips from what he did to me earlier.
“You say that, but if something goes sideways, you need a plan. So listen, okay?”
For once, he doesn’t keep talking. He waits. So I nod.
“Okay.”
He looks back toward the house.
“No way in from the front. Too much foot traffic. Side entrance might work, depending on fences and camera angles. Basement’s a possibility. That model was built post-war. They usually had service doors to the boiler room. Could still be there. If you siphon through the ground and land in the basement, and somehow turn human again, that should be your way out.”
I stare at him. “Are you building a mental blueprint of the house in your pocket or something?”
He flicks a glance at me.
“What the hell do you think I did in the military? Bake muffins?”
I lift my hands in mock surrender. “I was just asking.”
He holds my gaze for a second, then gets back on track.
“You go in. You get the object. You get out. Clean. Silent. Efficient.”
His eyes flick away, scanning the house one last time before we both agree it’s time. I wait for him to look at me again, then flash a breezy smile and wink before reaching for the door handle.
“See you on the other side,” I say, my voice lighter than I feel. Because inside, every nerve is coiled tight.
I step out of the car into the cool air. The scent of wet grass and quiet suburbia wraps around me. It’s strange, knowing what Laura Collins turned into. How her house still looks likesomething out of a brochure. Polished. Manicured. The kind of place where kids sell lemonade and parents wave from porch swings.
If I focus hard enough, I can almost smell muffins baking inside.
I wonder if the cops patrolling the perimeter are as shocked as I was when I found out what was really hiding beneath all that charm.
Little Smilesin the basement should give them something to chew on.
They didn’t catch her.
And they could have.
If they’d paid more attention.
If they’d done whatever they’re doing now, faster.
Careful, Skye. You’re starting to sound a lot like your three homicidal friends.
I need to remember that justice is… complicated. Too complicated. Too big for any one mortal to handle, let alone a team of them juggling paperwork, pensions, and coffee breaks.
