~ Elara ~
I hailed a rideshare, grateful for the automated service that required no conversation. The driver, a middle-aged man with headphones, barely glanced at me as I slid into the backseat.
"2247 Fremont Avenue North," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
He nodded, pulling away from the curb.
My phone buzzed again. Caleb.
I let it go to voicemail, then immediately felt guilty. Whatever lies he'd told, whatever truths he'd withheld, he'd also saved my life multiple times. And from the fear in his voice when I left, he genuinely believed I was in danger.
Maybe I was. But right now, the only person I trusted less than Caleb Stone was myself.
The car rolled to a stop. "We're here," the driver announced, the first words he'd spoken.
I looked up at the two-story Crafts
