The air in the bedroom smelled of cheap eucalyptus vapor and old iron, heavy enough to choke a man. Sarah shifted against the flattened pillow, her breath rattling like dry leaves inside a tin box.

The safe house wasn't a fortress; it was a weathered cedar cabin tucked away in the dense pine forests outside Galena, where the rolling hills dropped down toward the Mississippi River. The air here didn't taste of exhaust and wet asphalt; it tasted of damp earth, pine needles, and woodsmoke curling lazily from a stone chimney.

When my taxi dropped me off at the end of the gravel drive, the sun was just dipping below the tree line, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the overgrown lawn. I walked up the wooden steps, my boots crunching softly on the pinecones scattered across the porch. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the heavy wooden door swung inward.

Sarah stood in the doorway. She was wearing a thick flannel shirt that swallowed her thin frame, her ash-blonde hair tied back in a loose braid. She looked tired, her skin still carrying the pale, translucent quality of someone who had spent too close to the edge, but the hunted, feverish look in her eyes was gone. Replaced by something steady. Something real.

"You made it," she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the rustle of the wind through the pines.

"It takes more than a federal raid and a broken car to stop a Moretti," I said, stepping inside and pulling her into a careful, awkward embrace, conscious of how fragile she felt beneath the heavy flannel.

The interior of the cabin was warm, smelling of cedarwood and simmering chicken broth. In the corner of the small living room, sitting at a sturdy oak table with a kerosene lamp casting a soft yellow glow, was Lily. She had a piece of dark blue fabric spread out before her, her tiny red-tipped fingers guiding a needle with the mechanical precision of an experienced artisan.

She didn't look up immediately. She tied off the thread with a swift, practiced snap of her teeth, bit the tail clean, and then turned her dark, serious eyes toward me.

"You brought your bag," she noted, pointing a small finger at the canvas duffel I had dropped by the door.

"I told you I was coming," I said, walking over and pulling out the wooden chair opposite her. "Did you finish your work?"

Lily slid the folded piece of blue fabric across the table. I picked it up. Stitched into the hem in fine, silver thread was a tiny, intricate rose—my mother’s mark, duplicated with absolute, terrifying perfection.