"That's it." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Blue shutters."
Jon pulls the SUV to the curb two houses down. His hand moves to his weapon, checks it, settles. The easy charm from the helicopter is gone—he's pure operator now, all sharp edges and coiled tension.
"Stay behind me until we're inside." He doesn't look at me as he says it. His eyes are scanning the street, the houses, the spaces between. "If anything looks wrong?—"
"I know. I remember."
His gaze flicks to mine. Holds for a beat. Something passes between us—not words, just acknowledgment. We've had this argument already. We found our compromise.
"Let's go."
We exit the vehicle. The afternoon sun is warm on my face, incongruously pleasant for what we're walking into. A lawn mower hums somewhere in the distance. Birds chirp. Somewhere, a dog barks twice and falls silent.
My feet carry me toward Sera's door. Jon is beside me, slightly behind, his body angled in ways I'm starting to understand mean he's ready to put himself between me and any threat. Every step feels endless. Every breath feels borrowed.
The door is blue. Rosie picked the color when she was four.I want it to look like the sky, Mommy.
I raise my hand.
I knock.
Silence. My pulse hammers in my ears. Jon's presence at my back is a furnace of contained readiness.
Then: footsteps. Fast. The scrape of a chain lock. The door swings open and Sera is there—dark hair in a messy bun, circles under her eyes.
She sees me.
"Evie." My name comes out strangled. "Oh my God. Oh my God."
She grabs me. I grab her back. We're both shaking—her whole body trembling against mine, her arms locked around my shoulders like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. The air in the entryway rushes out to meet me, smelling of lemon furniture polish and the clean, sun-dried scent of laundry—the specific lavender detergent Sera always uses.
It’s the absolute, heart-wrenching opposite of the cabin’s Pine-Sol and stale coffee. This is what life smells like.
"I thought you were dead." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "Five days, Evie. Five days and nothing. I called everyone. The FBI wouldn't tell me anything. I thought?—"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't you dare apologize." She pulls back enough to look at my face, her eyes wet. "Don't you dare. You're alive. You're here."
"Mommy?"
The small voice comes from the hallway. Rosie stands at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a stuffed elephant, her eyes huge and uncertain.
"Aunt Evie?"
Everything in me cracks open.
"Hey, Rosebud." I drop to my knees, opening my arms, and she's running before I finish the words. The impact of her small body nearly knocks me over. Her arms wrap around my neck with the ferocious strength of a child who loves without reservation, without caution, without any of the walls adults learn to build.
"I missed you." Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. "I missed you so much."
"I missed you, too, baby girl." The tears are coming now—I can't stop them, don't want to. "I missed you so much."
Jon clears his throat. I look up to find him standing in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral, but something soft around his eyes as he watches us.
"We need to move." His voice is gentle but firm.
Sera's spine straightens. The weepy relief shifts into something sharper—the single mother practicality I've watched her develop over six years.
