I stepped into the house behind General Thorne. It had been years since I stood in this place, but nothing had changed. Still cold, still meticulously organized, and still smelling faintly of tobacco, cedarwood polish.
The living room was wide and immaculately arranged, decorated with dark oak furniture, military memorabilia, and perfectly aligned portraits of war heroes which included family. Even Evelyn’s childhood photo had long disappeared from the shelf. Everything here screamed control.
Thorne walked ahead, never looking back.
“Suit yourself,” he said as he gestured stiffly to the black leather chair beside the fireplace. Then he moved to the sideboard and began prepping a fresh pot of coffee.
“You drink it black or sweetened?” he asked over his shoulder.
I ran a hand through my
