Maureen rocked slowly on John Tucker’s porch, the wooden chair creaking underneath the movements as she clutched a mason jar of whiskey. She preferred sitting at his house during a sunset because the front of his house faced the right direction. Her place was better suited for sunrises, which they also watched together occasionally. The orange and violet of the night’s sunset peeked through the massive oaks and towering pines as she contemplated her daughter’s phone call earlier. Two phone calls, actually. Maureen still didn’t know why her daughter asked Adira about someone named Trayton Prescott or what the Order of Wardens had to do with anything, but it sent her mother’s sense tingling.
Oliver had yanked Liberty out of New Orleans over two years ago, which was perfect timing on their
