Krystal’s Point of View
Early in the morning we walked out of the safehouse. Not in a hurry. Not out of fear. But in the cold steel determination of men who had been made aware at last of the full measure of their foe.
Colt was driving, his hands calm on the steering-wheel, his eyes upon the ice-bound road, which cut its serpentine way through the forest. I was sitting next to him in the passenger side, looking over the window at the fountain of frost bitten trees. We talked at no one. They were not awkwardly silent, it was a heavy-sacred silence. As a truce between the battle we were about to fight and the ghosts which we had just exhumed.
The letter of Cecilia was like a splinter stuck in my heart. It was not exactly painful, but it was there all the time, a dull ache of recollection
