Chapter Eighty-Two
The slam of the bedroom door echoed through the small cabin like a gunshot, but the absolute silence that followed was infinitely worse.
I stood paralyzed beside the small wooden desk, the single oil lamp flickering against the rough timber wall, casting long, wavering shadows across the room. The cold air that had swept in from the front porch lingered in the hallway, carrying the faint, bitter scent of pine needles and damp earth. On the desk, illuminated by the pale yellow glow, lay the sheets of paper—my father’s messy, hurried handwriting laying out dates, weapon serial numbers, and federal drop locations.
My father’s handwriting. The proof that he had been selling out the Iron Reapers for over two years. The proof that he had sold out Jake.
A cold, heavy numbne
