Chapter 61 The Hunt

• The safehouse smelled like defeat.
• Not the sharp, acrid stench of gunpowder or the metallic tang of blood—those I could handle. This was worse: damp plaster peeling like sunburned skin, a fridge humming with the last gasp of a half-rotten lemon, and the sour musk of fear that clung to all three of us like a second shadow.
• Lily sat cross-legged on the floor, her finger tracing the cracks in the wall as if they were a map to somewhere better. Her voice, when it came, was small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.