The room Cruz led her to sat at the far end of a converted trailer behind the main barn — small, clean, more comfortable than Wren had expected, with a real bed, a woodstove already lit and humming, and a window that looked out over a stretch of tree line rather than the gravel yard. He set her bag down at the foot of the bed and stood there a moment, hands in his pockets, something uncharacteristically uncertain in his posture.
"It's not much," he said. "But the lock's good, and there's always somebody within shouting distance."
"It's fine. It's more than fine." Wren wrapped her arms around herself, the adrenaline of the last hour finally starting to ebb, leaving something rawer and more exhausted in its wake. "Cruz. What did Birdie mean back there?"
He didn't answer right away, crossi
