I straighten abruptly before the thought finishes forming. But it’s too late.
Dust. Smoke. Concrete shattered across a narrow street. Phoenix jerking free of my grip.
Not now. “You’re going to blow it.”
Gunfire cracking somewhere above us. The radio screaming over itself.
My hand locked around the back of his vest. “Get back in position.”
Phoenix twisting hard enough to break loose. “You don’t understand.”
The memory cuts sharply there. Same place it always does, as if my mind refuses to go farther. Or maybe it knows exactly what waits beyond it.
I scrub a hand over my face hard enough to hurt. None of it matters now.
The dead stay dead no matter how many times you replay the moment.
And Sloane…
God.
I look back toward the cabin, partially hidden through the trees. Warm light glows faintly through the window. She’s in there right now, putting pieces together. Sharp enough to see the seams and to realize none of this was random.
That’s the real danger. Not the reports. Not the military. Not even the truth itself.
Her.
Because she’ll keep digging until she hits bone. And if she reaches the center of this…
I look away sharply.
No.
Can’t let her get there.
Not because I’m protecting myself. Because I remember what it felt like realizing Phoenix wasn’t who I thought he was. That kind of knowledge hollows you out.
The wind picks up suddenly, carrying the smell of rain again. Today’s storm moves faster now.
I gather the rope and start back toward the cabin. Every step feels heavier than the last. By the time I reach the porch, thunder rolls closer through the valley. The mountains disappear slowly behind curtains of fog.
I pause with my hand on the door. Inside, I hear movement. Papers shifting, drawers opening, still digging.
Of course, she is.
I step inside. Warmth hits first. Then her.
Sloane sits cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table. surrounded by files and photographs. My reports are spread open in front of her like evidence in a trial.
She glances up immediately, wide-eyed but focused. Those eyes lock onto me and stay there, watching, measuring.
That’s when it hits me.
They’re no longer him.
Now, they have a life of their own. They’ve become something worse. Something that means too much to me, though I’ll never admit it—windows intoher.
“Storm’s coming,” I say.
