Mabel's search led us, three days later, to an abandoned property two counties over, a farmhouse long since reclaimed by weeds and rot, listed in old pack records as Callahan's final known residence before his supposed death.
It doesn't feel abandoned, I said, standing at the edge of the overgrown drive, some instinct prickling along the back of my neck that had nothing to do with imagination.
Ronan's nostrils flared slightly, reading the air the way he did when something set his senses on alert. Someone's been here recently, he said quietly. Within the last few days, maybe less.
We approached carefully, Ronan leading, his body angled protectively in front of mine the way it always seemed to arrange itself without conscious thought whenever danger felt close. The front door hung ajar, a
