Grace
The silence in Kent's truck on the way to Venom later that afternoon was heavy enough to make my lungs ache. He hadn't said a single word about the mole since we left the house. He didn't have to. The grim line of his jaw and the terrifyingly tight grip he kept on the steering wheel told me everything. He was calculating his next move, hunting for a traitor in his mind, and his quietness felt far more dangerous than a shouting match.
When we walked into the bar, the usual afternoon chatter was entirely absent. The air felt stagnant, thick with a collective anxiety that seemed to coat the old wooden floorboards.
Jinx was sitting at a corner table, staring down at a mug of untouched coffee. He looked smaller today, the cocky, untouchable attitude he usually wore completely stripped
