The safehouse smelled like blood and smoke.

We had scrubbed the walls, patched the broken window, and thrown out the sheets that had been soaked in someone else’s life, but it didn’t matter. No amount of bleach could clean the memory. The ghosts clung too tight.

I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping gauze around my shoulder where Jason’s bullet had grazed me. My fingers trembled, but not from the pain. From the silence. Jaxon hadn’t said a word in hours.

He leaned against the wall ...