The silence in the house had changed. Before Noah arrived, it was a thin, brittle thing, always threatening to snap under the weight of her own unease. Now, with the perimeter secured and his men hovering at the edges of the block, the house felt heavy, anchored, and claustrophobic. Ava tried to keep her hands busy. She moved through the rooms, straightening pillows that were already straight, folding laundry she’d already folded anything to stop the restless thrumming in her chest. She made coffee, the scent blooming sharp and bitter in the kitchen, and stood by the window for a long time. Everything outside looked annoyingly normal. A neighbor was out walking a golden retriever; the mail carrier moved from house to house with rhythmic efficiency. It was the kind of banal, gray morning that made the sheer, cold terror of the night before feel like a fever dream she’d invented. Get it together, Ava, she told herself, clutching the mug until her knuckles went white. He’s coming bac
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