Miller leads the way, a heavy flashlight cutting a path through the waist-high grass. He reaches the front door, kicks aside a pile of dead crows that have frozen on the threshold, and jams a skeleton key into the lock.
The door groans, a long, high-pitched metallic shriek that echoes through the empty foyer.
We step inside.
The interior is a tomb of dust and shadows. The air is thick, tasting of mold and old secrets. Sheets of plastic drape the furniture like ghosts, and the heavy velvet curtains have rotted into jagged ribbons.
"The master suite on the third floor," I command Miller, my breathing turning into a shallow, wet whistle. "Move."
The ascent up the grand staircase is a slow-motion execution. Every step is a battle. Sybil is under my right arm, her small shoulder acting as a crutch, her body vibrating with the effort of holding my mass upright.
We reach the third floor. Miller kicks open the double doors to the master bedroom.
It is a cavernous space, dominated by a massive four-poster bed and a stone fireplace. The windows look out over the churning, violent gray waves of the lake, the sound of the surf crashing against the rocks far below vibrating through the floorboards.
Miller and the enforcer set me down on the edge of the bed. The mattress is musty, the velvet hangings smelling of mothballs and damp.
"Leave the bag," I order Miller. "And the car. Ditch the van in the lake five miles north. Walk to the extraction point Dante set. Do not come back here unless I signal."
"Boss, you need a doctor," Miller says, his eyes darting to the fresh blood soaking through the bandages on my shoulder.
"I have everything I need," I growl, my eyes flicking to Sybil, who is standing by the window, staring out at the desolate lake with a look of profound, hollow exhaustion.
Miller nods, his face tight with concern, but he knows better than to argue. He drops the tactical bag and the surgical kit on the floor, places a burner phone on the nightstand, and retreats.
The sound of their footsteps fades down the stairs. The front door slams. The van engine rumbles, then vanishes into the distance.
The silence that returns is absolute, save for the rhythmic, mournful drumming of the rain and the roar of the lake.
I am alone with her in the house where I learned to be a monster.
"Sybil," I call out.
She turns slowly. The dim, gray light from the gaps in the boards illuminates her pale face. She looks like a ghost haunting her own life. She walks toward the bed, her bare feet silent on the dusty floorboards. She stops in front of me, looking down at my ruined chest.
"You're shaking," I observe, my voice a dark, gravelly vibration.
"It's cold," she whispers, though we both know it's a lie. She is vibrating with the aftershocks of the trauma, the realization that we are now truly, entirely isolated from the world.
"Come here."
I reach out with my right hand, my fingers wrapping around her waist. I pull her forward until she is standing between my spread knees. The heat radiating from my fever-wracked body clashes with the freezing chill of her skin.
"We're safe here," I murmur, my hand sliding up her back, my thumb tracing the line of her spine through the heavy sweater.
"Are we?" she asks, her midnight-blue eyes locking onto mine, searching for a truth I’m not sure I can give her. "Thayer, the FBI... they have the files. They know you killed him. They know everything."
"They know what I want them to know," I lie, the manipulation as natural as breathing. "The evidence is circumstantial. Without a body, without a confession, they have nothing but the ramblings of a dead gambler. By the time they build a real case, we will be on the other side of the world."
She swallows hard, her throat working as she stares at my bruised mouth. "And what happens then? Do we just... stay in the dark forever?"
"We stay together," I correct, my grip on her waist tightening, pulling her flush against my chest. I ignore the scream of my shoulder, the pain acting as a grounding wire. "Is that such a terrible fate, Sybil? To be the only two people left in the world?"
She doesn't answer with words. She reaches out, her small hands cupping my face. Her thumbs brush over my cheekbones, wiping away the grime and the dried blood. Her touch is a violent electrical shock, igniting a dark, desperate fire in my blood that the fever cannot touch.
"You arruined everything," she whispers, a single tear slipping past her lashes. "You killed my father. You burned my home. You made me a criminal."
"I made you mine," I growl, leaning in until our lips are a breath apart.
