He chuckles quietly.
“I think I can live with that.”
His fingers trace slow circles along my back.
For the first time in years—
I fall asleep without feeling like I’m running from something.
5
Boone
Morning in Montana smells like pine, cold air, and wood smoke. It reminds me of camping when I was just a kid.
The kind of quiet that makes people believe nothing bad could ever happen here.
That’s exactly why operations like this grow so well.
Small towns trust easily.
And trust is the most dangerous currency in the world.
The diner sits on the corner of Main and Cedar, a squat brick building with fogged windows and a hand-painted sign that saysMaggie’s.
Inside, the place is warm and loud with breakfast chatter.
Hunters.
Ranchers.
Two women arguing about school board funding.
Normal life.
Exactly the kind of place a ghost network would hide.
Wren sits across from me in the booth, wrapped in a dark jacket, her laptop bag tucked beside her leg. She looks like a consultant passing through town.
Which is exactly the cover she’s using.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up from her coffee.
“Habit.”
“You’re supposed to blend in.”
“I am blending in.”
“You look like a man casing the exits.”
“Iamcasing the exits.”
She sighs.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you requested me.”
