Prologue
Reeve
The birds are flying low.
Though the sky over the coastline is clear, coils of moisture have turned the air damper than usual. A storm is brewing—one that will drench the forest I’ve camped in.
I need to get the Woody to harder ground before I’m bogged down and miss my afternoon shift.
I fold up my camping chair and portable barbecue, load both into the trunk, then head to the camper to secure everything inside, which isn’t much—some toiletries, a few changes of clothes, a terracotta statue made by my best friend, and my prized cookbook collection.
By the time I’ve locked the camper door, the first peal of thunder vibrates the leaves and needles of the surrounding evergreens.
It’s crossed my mind to travel south in search of warmer, drier climates, but there’s something about Kennebunkport that calls to me. It feels like home in a way that Boston never did. Possibly because this is where my parents met and lived before being recruited into the organization that ruined their lives and so many others.
Once I’ve revved the engine, I plug the charging cable into my phone and pull out onto the nearest road, taking a right into town to buy gas and groceries, before heading to the bougie, wharf eatery where I work as a line cook under a chef high on talent but low on patience. The paychecks are crap, but the experience is priceless.
To be fair, I don’t need the money thanks to my best friend’s parting gift. Although I left Boston with only the clothes on my back, I soon discovered pills worth a small fortune hemmed into my sweatpants.
The first raindrops splatter on my windshield just as I pull into the gas station. I grab my barely-charged phone, then get out to feed the nozzle into my tank. For a couple of minutes, I watch the spectacle of the early spring storm muscling across the seaside town I’ve called home for the last six years.
Once the ambient world has fully blurred, I check my phone for messages. I don’t get many. Just the occasional one from work, or from the gym where I teach part-time in order to use the facilities, which beats my camper’s microscopic bathroom.
I happily find zero new notifications.
I plug the nozzle back into the pump station, then jog inside to pay cash. While I wait for my change, my phone vibrates in the back pocket of my joggers. A glance at the name flashing on my screen has my body coiling and my eardrums humming.
I stride out of the station without my change, my heart going as wild as the time I was almost caught casing Tarian Hadez’s property.
I pick up the call. “Hayes?”
“Reeve.”
My heart misses several beats at the whimpered sound of my name. “What happened, Hayes? Where are you? Why do you sound so weak?”
My best friend’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I love you, Cook.”
The sound of my old codename coats my spine in ice, reminding me of the past I turned my back on.
“I just wanted you to know that in case…in case…”
“In case what?” I bark. “Quinn?” I drop into the station wagon and slam my door shut. “Hayes?!”
“I’m here.”
But I’m not. I’m fucking eighty miles away. “What did my asshole stepbrother do this time?”
Her silence crumples my lungs.
“HAYES!” I scream.
“I should’ve left with you.” Her voice is so heartbreakingly soft I want to smash my fist against something—or rather,someone: Trenton.
“Where are you?” I tear toward the highway, nearly rear-ending two cars and clipping a row of mailboxes.
It’s a wonder I make it to I-95 with my camper still attached and my side mirrors intact.
“Hayes, where the hell are you?” I bellow into the phone.
