I've never snuck into enemy territory in my life. First time for everything, I guess.
I didn't go back to my cabin. I went to my car instead, the same one I'd nearly wrecked outrunning Viper bikes weeks ago, and drove into town with a plan forming faster than my better judgment could talk me out of it. Every mile put more distance between me and the argument I'd just walked out of, and every mile also made the reckless shape of what I was about to do feel a little more inevitable.
My father had kept a small black notebook in his desk drawer for as long as I could remember — names, numbers, notes in his cramped, practical handwriting that I'd always assumed were just supplier contacts. I'd found it again while going through his things after the funeral, tucked it away without much thought
