The morning cut clean and cold across the town, the kind of bright that made lies look like truth. Cordelia woke with the index cards under her pillow and the scent of coffee in her throat. She had practiced the lines until her tongue could have said them in her sleep; now the only thing left was to make Reid believe them.
Ash met her at the gate before dawn, leather jacket zipped up against the wind. He didn’t say much—there was no need. His face was a map of lines she already knew: worry, anger, and an edge of something that said he would break anyone who tried to hurt her again. He checked her jacket pockets, the hidden camera in the seam, and the small burner with the preprogrammed number. Every motion was businesslike, controlled. His eyes flicked to hers with the barest question: Re
