I had always believed home was a place.
A little white farmhouse.
A squeaky front porch.
A cluttered garage that smelled like old engines and coffee.
A man with grease on his hands calling me Evie every time I wandered in to ask too
many questions.
But as the sun rose over the burned remains of the Cross property, I realized home
had never been the house.
It had been him.
And he was gone.
The drive from Iron Crown to Ash Creek was quiet.
Too quiet.
I sat in the passenger seat of Grim's truck, Thomas's journal resting in my lap and the
brass key hanging from a leather cord around my neck beside the silver pendant.
Neither of us had spoken much since we left the clubhouse.
Hawk and Cal rode ahead of us on their motorcycles. Two more trucks followed
behind. Silas had wanted to
