Chapter 165

The road home always smells the same — cedar, gun oil, and whatever pie Sissy's been baking for someone who “just dropped by.” It’s a weird kind of comfort, this compound. Built out of blood, memory, and bad habits. Ronan calls it home. Sissy calls it salvation. By the time I pull into the drive, the porch light’s off, but the living room glows faintly through the window. Someone’s awake. Of cours