Aunt Ellie's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I'm sitting at the bar in Backroads, staring at a plate of eggs I haven't touched, running through scenarios in my head for the hundredth time.
The early morning light streams through the windows, catching dust motes in the air.
The bar is empty except for the two of us—it doesn't open for hours yet, but Ellie's always here early, prepping for the day.
"Not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry." She slides the plate closer to me, her expression brooking no argument. "Asked you to eat. There's a difference. You've lost weight, Garrett. I can see it in your face. That's not going to help anyone."
I look up at her—this woman who's been more of a mother to me than anyone since the fire.
Her gray hair is pulled back in its usual braid, her apron stained with coffee and grease, her eyes sharp as ever despite how early it is.
She's weathered every storm this club has thrown at her for thirty years.
She's seen men come and go, some to prison, some to the grave.
She knows what violence costs, and she's still standing.
"I can't stop thinking about it," I admit. "About him. About what he did to her. What he wants to do."
"I know." She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against the bar, studying me with those knowing eyes. "But starving yourself isn't going to help Vanna. And it's not going to make Virgil dead any faster."
She's right.
I know she's right.
But the rage has settled into my bones, become part of me.
It's hard to feel anything else.
I force down a few bites of eggs.
They taste like cardboard.
"How is she?" Ellie asks. "Really?"
"Scared. Trying not to show it." I push the eggs around my plate. "She's been having nightmares. Wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking, crying. Sometimes she doesn't even remember what the dream was about. Just the feeling of being watched."
"That bastard got into her head."
"Yeah. He did." I set down my fork. "And I can't get him out. I can't fix this for her. All I can do is wait for Ounce to give us a location and hope we move before Virgil does something worse."
The bell over the door chimes, and we both look up.
Leah walks in, still in her scrubs from a night shift at the hospital.
She looks exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her hair escaping from its ponytail—but there's something else in her expression.
Something that makes my stomach drop.
"Garrett." Her voice is tight. "We need to talk."
I'm on my feet before she finishes the sentence. "What happened?"
She reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope.
