LYRA’S POV
The bell above the heavy glass door of the Rusty Spoke chimed a low, brassy note as it swung shut, cutting off the crisp night air and sealing the diner back into its familiar, insulated warmth.
Through the fogged-up glass of the front window, I watched the taillights of Gabriel’s massive, black SUV bloom into a deep, crimson red before the vehicle glided silently out of the cracked asphalt parking lot. It was a flawless piece of engineering—sleek, high-end, and entirely out of place against the backdrop of the valley’s flickering orange streetlights and weathered brick facades.
For a moment, I simply stood by the partition of the back booths, a damp sanitizing cloth hanging loosely from my hand.
The physical space they had occupied still held the faint, lingering traces of
