The safehouse didn’t sleep after Pale Harbor.
The walls seemed thinner, the air heavier, like every shadow pressed with suspicion. The smell of smoke and blood still clung to their clothes, and no amount of whiskey or water washed it out.
Capol sat at the table long after the others had settled, cleaning his blade with slow, deliberate motions. He didn’t need to—he could have left the stain until morning—but the ritual steadied him. Every stroke of cloth over steel was a way to drown out the voices in his head. Vince’s accusations. Julian’s cold warning. Pat’s eyes when she said you know me.
But did he?
The scrape of a chair broke his focus. Jerry lowered himself across the table, a glass in his hand, his face carved with fatigue.
“You can’t keep shielding her forever,” he said quietl
