The safehouse was a ghost.

A crumbling estate on the edge of the Adirondacks, buried so deep in the woods that even satellites would struggle to find it. No neighbors. No roads. No signal.

Perfect.

Marcella had secured it within hours of Grayson's death, her network moving with terrifying efficiency. By nightfall, they were already inside, the babies wrapped in blankets, the adults nursing wounds and paranoia in equal measure.

Eva sat by the fireplace, the unmodified Sophia asleep in her arms. ...