Nothing about it screamed stash house.
That was probably why it worked.
I watched the street settle into morning around me. A woman in a pink robe shuffled outside two houses down to collect a newspaper. A man across the road let out a small dog that immediately lost its mind at a bird on the fence. A teenager in pajama pants cut across a vacant lot with a backpack slung over one shoulder, moving with the dead-eyed resentment of every kid forced to be awake too early.
Normal life.
That was the trickiest camouflage in the world.
Most people looked at a neighborhood like this and saw nothing worth noticing.
I looked at it and saw patterns.
The dog barked at every passing car except the gray sedan that rolled through at 6:42, which meant it came by often enough to be familiar. The old
