A week passes in small, ordinary pieces that finally hold. I do the concealment drills three times a day—hallway at noon, porch threshold late afternoon, stove lamp before bed. I don’t wear the necklace in the house. Bella reads on the couch with her feet under the quilt and draws until the paper lets her. Grams fixes a hinge and mends a towel like the world is normal and might stay that way if we keep our hands busy.
Some nights William is out on the street. He never steps onto the driveway, never touches the porch. If he kills a scout, he does it out there and leaves the rain to handle the rest. I don’t call to him. He doesn’t ask me to.
Late morning on the eighth day, the pressure at the driveway tightens in that particular way it does for demons—cool along my forearms, a faint ash s
