I laughed quietly.
I thought about the shop downtown, about how tomorrow I’d open the doors again and greet strangers and regulars and brides with binders full of dreams. I’d answer questions, make suggestions, reassure people that yes, it would be beautiful. Yes, it would be okay.
And somewhere between invoices and ribbon choices, I’d start planning something bigger than anything we’d done before.
I wasn’t scared.
That surprised me, a little.
Maybe it was because I knew this world so well—flowers, seasons, logistics, numbers, care. Maybe it was because my family stood behind me, steady as the land itself. Or maybe it was because, for once, something had come along that felt like an invitation instead of a demand.
I headed back toward the house as the night settled fully around us. The porch light flicked on automatically, bathing the steps in soft yellow. Lily waved at me from the swing, her feet dragging the floor.
“Are you staying over?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“Good,” she said, like she’d already known.
Inside, Momma had left a mug on the counter for me, steam curling up into the air. I wrapped my hands around it, warmth seeping into my palms.
As I stood there, listening to the familiar sounds of home—the hum of the refrigerator, the murmur of voices, the distant bark of a neighbor’s dog—I felt something settle into place.
I didn’t know exactly where this new path led.
But I knew one thing for sure.
Whatever was coming, I wanted to meet it with both hands open.
4
MICAH
The airfield was small enough to miss if you weren't looking for it—tucked between farmland and forest, a single runway cutting through the green like a scar that had healed clean.
I parked the rental two hundred meters out and approached on foot, scanning for threats out of habit. The coordinates had been exact. The timing, too. Whoever was running this operation didn't leave room for improvisation.
The plane sat at the far end of the tarmac, sleek and private, the kind that didn't need to advertise wealth because it existed in a tax bracket most people couldn't pronounce. Black fuselage. Clean lines. No markings except a registration number I'd already memorized and would forget the second I didn't need it anymore.
A crewman stood at the base of the stairs, hands clasped in front of him like he was waiting for royalty instead of a man who'd killed someone just hours ago.
"Mr. Dane," he said as I approached.
I stopped. "How do you know my name?"
"We were told to expect you." His smile was polite, professional, the kind that gave nothing away. "Welcome aboard."
I climbed the stairs, every instinct screaming that this was a trap, a setup, a play I couldn't see the edges of yet. But I'd committed. And if it went sideways, at least I'd go down swinging.
Inside, the plane was exactly what I'd expected—leather seats, polished wood, ambient lighting that made everything feel like a high-end hotel instead of a metal tube designed to defy gravity. Quiet. Expensive. Empty.
I was the only passenger.
The crewman gestured toward a seat near the front. "Make yourself comfortable, sir. We'll be airborne shortly."
I sat, buckled in, and waited.
The engines hummed to life. The plane taxied. Within minutes, we were climbing, the ground falling away beneath us, Riga disappearing into memory.
