The message came just as the light outside began to fade, the first hints of evening pressing shadows against the windows.
Be ready. We'll move you tonight. I'll be there in a few hours.
Anne.
I stared at the text longer than I should have, my thumb hovering over the screen, rereading the words until they blurred. It wasn't her tone—that clipped precision was normal—but the fact that she was coming herself. Anne had always handled things from a distance, relayed through calls and secure lines. If she was making the drive, it meant something had shifted.
Something worse.
I turned the screen toward Chris. He read it, lips tightening, but said nothing. Neither of us did. Because we both knew what it meant, and we both knew saying it aloud would make it real.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
