Chapter Twenty-Six
I expect to find a man being pushed to the edge of his limits. And I do find that.
But not the way I thought.
There’s a row of abandoned houses, each one stately and tall, each one crumbling beneath nature and neglect. Some of them have signs in the front, converted into businesses at one time. A lawyer’s office. A boutique. The sign at this house is too faded to read as I streak past it. The door hangs open, not locked. No one’s worried about intruders. No one enters a place with this level of danger, of dread voluntarily.
Instead of Jonathan Scott, looking sinister in a neat tuxedo, wielding some kind of instrument of torture, I find Gabriel Miller with his shirtsleeves rolled up, the white linen fabric stained dark with sweat and soot and blood, holding an iron po
