I chew on the inside of my cheek. “And if it just makes things worse?”
He shrugs. “Then at least you’ll know. And you won’t have to keep carrying it.”
His words settle deep, curling around something raw inside me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never had someone to look at me the way Sawyer does now, not with pity, not with judgment, just quiet understanding.
I exhale, nodding once. “I need more time, I’ll think about it.”
He squeezes my shoulder once before stepping away, heading toward the driver’s side. “Good.”
The warmth lingers even as Ada pushes the door open and dramatically tosses two bags of snacks onto the roof of the car.“Alright, idiots, I got us normal food.” She squints at me, then at Sawyer. “What’s with the deep emotional moment I just walked into?”
Sawyer smirks, getting into the car. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
I shake my head, throwing my door open. As we pull back onto the road, something inside me feels lighter. Not gone, not fixed, but maybe… a little less heavy.
The highway stretches endlessly before us, a long ribbon of asphalt cutting through the landscape. At first, the scenery doesn’t change much, just the same dull stretch of road, the occasional semi-truck lumbering past, and the distant outline of city buildings shrinking in the rearview mirror.
But as the miles slip away, New York becomes a memory in the rearview, replaced by winding roads and wide-open spaces. The buildings grow sparse, traded for thick forests and rolling hills. The further we drive, the more the world shifts; skyscrapers giving way to small towns, neon signs replaced by old, weathered billboards advertising diners.
Ada’s curled up in the backseat now, half-asleep with her hoodie pulled over her head, occasionally mumbling in protest whenever the car hits a bump in the road. Sawyer is still at the wheel, his fingers drumming absently against it in time with the soft hum of the radio. I watch the scenery pass in a blur, the trees taller now, the roads narrower.
The air changes too, crisp and clean in a way that reminds me we’re not in the city anymore. There’s a stillness here, a quiet that settles over everything like a thick blanket. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound; the rustling ofthe trees, the distant call of birds overhead, the occasional crack of a branch snapping under the weight of something unseen.
We pass through the main strip of Maple Hill, a small town that looks like it could be a postcard from another decade. The streets are lined with brick buildings, mom-and-pop shops with hand-painted signs, and a diner with a flickering neon ‘Open’ sign that buzzes faintly even from the car. A few people linger outside a café, sipping coffee, chatting in low voices. They glance up as we pass, their expressions unreadable.
Sawyer makes a left turn onto a smaller road, the kind that barely has lane markings, and I can feel the tension shift in the car.
“We’re close,” I say, my fingers tightening around the folder in my lap.
No one argues.
The further we go, the more isolated it becomes. The trees grow thicker, stretching over the road like they’re trying to swallow it whole. Houses become more spread out, small, weathered, some abandoned entirely. The pavement eventually gives way to cracked gravel, the sound crunching under the tires as we drive deeper into the unknown.
Sawyer slows as we approach Briarwood Lane. The street is lined with old, forgotten houses, most of them dark, their yards overgrown and fences leaning from years of neglect.
What the hell is this dumpster place?
“There,” Ada says, finally sitting up, her voice sharper now.
487 Briarwood Lane.
The house is set back from the road, hidden behind a rusting chain-link fence. The windows are dark, the front porch sagging with age. The whole place looks abandoned, but I know better than to assume that means no one is inside.
Sawyer pulls the car to a stop a little down the street, killing the engine. The silence is deafening.
For a moment, none of us move.
“I should go in alone,” I say finally, breaking the stillness.
Ada makes a sound of protest from the backseat, and Sawyer’s head snaps toward me immediately, his expression already set in stone. “Absolutely not.”
I exhale, turning to him. “It makes the most sense. If we all go in, it looks like an ambush. We don’t know what we’re walking into, but we do know that Kuznetsov is expecting me.” I gesture toward the house. “Not us. Me.”
Sawyer’s jaw tightens. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, but it’s the best shot we have.” I lean back against the headrest, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I go in. I keep it casual. I find out what I can, and I walk out.”
Ada shakes her head, rubbing at her face. “Or, and hear me out, you go in and never walk out.”
