TWENTY-ONE
That Sunday, Shea had asked Raid and Diego to be present at the house for dinner. Diego showed up on time. Raid hadn’t appeared yet.
Both Shea and Diego were high enough up in the comrades’ estimations that if anything had happened, someone would have let them know, especially given that they both carried walkies everywhere.
So, there was no disaster. That didn’t mean Raid wasn’t caught up in work. She had cooked, so instead of letting the food go to waste, she had served for her and Diego. They were sitting at the dining table beneath the stairs, enjoying her efforts.
“It’s good,” Diego said, picking up his wine glass.
The door in the back corner of the dining area led down to a windowless cellar space that hung suspended within the stilts of the structure. It was visible
