No wasted motion.
No talking.
Just the quiet rustle of clothes and gear—zippers, buckles, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor—as we prepared for something that had no name yet. Something that tasted like finality.
I stopped.
My eyes swept the room.
My room.
Books on the shelves. The dresser. The nightstand with its little lamp, which I’d had since college. Everything sat exactly where it had always been.
My chest clenched so hard I couldn’t breathe for a second.
I crossed the room and lifted the picture frame from the nightstand. Me and Lily. She couldn’t have been more than threemonths old—swaddled in a yellow blanket, one tiny fist curled against her cheek. My hair longer. My face softer. Unlined. Unmarked by what came after.
I slid the photograph free and tucked it into the pocket of my hoodie, pressing it flat against my chest.
I knew what Finn had said.
Nothing personal. Nothing that slows you down.
But I’d burn before I left without something.
I turned.
He stood in the doorway, watching me. His gaze was steady, and for a moment, I saw the argument he wasn’t making. Then, he gave a short, sharp nod—not approval, but acceptance.
That sufficed.
* * *
Downstairs, Fiona and Lily stood by the front hallway.
Backpacks on.
“Okay,” Finn said, his voice carrying authority—steady, controlled.
I grabbed a backpack and swung it over my shoulder. Finn mirrored my action, adjusting the straps with practiced hands before checking his weapon—magazine, round chambered.
Gun in hand.
Knife strapped at his hip.
He turned and held something out to me.
I blinked.
A cast-iron frying pan.
Ten inches. My mother’s.
“What—?”
“Smash the head,” he said, his voice flat. “Temple. Bridge of the nose. Back of the skull where it meets the spine. Swing hard and don’t stop until it drops.”
My stomach folded in on itself.
