We didn't go home that night.
Knox said it in the truck, flatly, like a man reading a weather report. Bishop had a key to the house. Bishop knew every board that creaked on the stairs. If someone had searched my room once, they could do it again.
"So where do we sleep?" I asked.
"Somewhere nobody knows about."
The road climbed for forty minutes, through pine woods and switchbacks, past the last mailbox, past the last light. The cabin sat at the end of a dirt track, black logs, a tin roof, a porch that leaned a little to the left.
"My father and I built it," Knox said, cutting the engine. "The summer I was fifteen. It took us four months and we fought the whole time." He almost smiled. "Bishop never knew. He was away that summer."
"You trust me with it."
"I'm not sure I do." He got o
