The cabin was cold, the windows boarded, and the floor covered in dried mud and cigarette ash. Logan stood by the fireplace, sharpening his knife in silence. Mason paced behind him, frustrated.
“She’s out there,” Mason said. “And we’re stuck here waiting.”
Logan didn’t look up. “You want to run out there and get killed too? Be my guest.”
The door creaked open. Reyes stepped in — soaked from rain, shotgun over his shoulder.
“No sign of Evelyn,” he said. “But someone’s following us.”
Logan finally turned. “Circle?”
“No. Smarter. Slower. Could be local.”
Mason rubbed his eyes. “This town’s barely on the map. Why would anyone follow us?”
Reyes tossed something onto the table — a metal tag with a number etched into it: S-019.
“That’s not Evelyn’s file,” Logan said slowly.
“No,” Reyes muttered. “It’s someone else’s. And they’re not dead.”
Evelyn dragged herself through the pine needles, ribs bruised, blood drying on her fingers. She didn’t know how far she’d run from Hollowmere, but the air
