Scarlett’s POV
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat at the kitchen table for hours, the address from Charles’s journal written again and again on a sheet of paper in front of me, as if repetition could make it make sense.
It didn’t.
Not yet.
But it would.
I sipped cold tea I’d forgotten to drink, surrounded by maps, the burner phone, my notebook, a flashlight, gloves, a knife. I didn’t know what I’d find at that address, but I was preparing for anything.
It was written in a part of the city I didn’t recognize by memory, but when I searched quietly using the burner phone’s limited browser, I found it tucked on the outskirts of a rural town two hours east.
No name. Just a set of coordinates attached to a rickety dirt road and a building with no online record. No photos. No listings.
It
