The safehouse was too quiet.Too clean. Too sterile for the phantom scent of gunpowder and blood still clinging to the inside of Eva’s nose.

She sat on the floor, back against the wall, Sophia a warm, living weight against her chest. The baby’s even breathing was a lie. It couldn’t erase the image burned onto the back of Eva’s eyelids: Mikael falling. The wet, sickening sound of impact. His final, choked roar—RUN.

Her own breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, her body still believing ...