Tide’s at rock-bottom when I stroll out onto the pier—these boards are moaning under me like they’re about to spill secrets. Mist’s hanging around, thick as grandma’s gravy, hiding everything except what’s right in your face. The horizon? Just a big gray smear. Sun’s still arguing with itself about whether it’s worth showing up.
There’s Wren, hanging out by the edge, boots soaked, hair stuck to her cheek like she’s got no time for umbrellas. “We’re early,” she says, almost whispering. “Way too early, if you ask me.”
“That’s the plan,” I tell her. “If anyone’s watching, let’s keep ‘em guessing.”
She peeks past me at the city’s shadowy outline. “What if they’re already here?”
I pat the pouch inside my coat—just in case. “Then we see how much they want it, right?”
A gull swings overhead,
