Chapter 22 Smoke Signals
- The safehouse is a drafty cabin north of town, its wooden walls creaking like old bones in the wind. Adam tosses his keys on the rickety table and plugs the USB into a laptop, the screen’s blue glow cutting through the dim light. I hover over his shoulder, the ache in my ribs a dull reminder of how close the bullet came.
- “You should sit,” he grunts, eyes fixed on the screen.
- “I’ll stand.”