Chapter 31 · The Blind Safehouse

The radio ate the last number, and the whole house went dead with it.

One second I had Willa’s hair tucked under my chin and cold coffee going sour in my mug. Next second, the third floor went pitch-black. Not dim. Black, the kind you feel grinding in your teeth.

Willa didn't scream.

That was the part that tore at me every damn time. She just went rigid against my ribs. Her little fingers clamped around my wrist like a vice, and not a single breath came out of her.

Downstairs, a chair shrieked across the marble. Then boots.

Owen’s boots.

I’d know that heavy, off-center tread anywhere. He always comes down hard on the outside edge of his heel, like he’s braced for the floorboards to cave in under him.

"Ruth." His voice came low from the stairwell. He never raises his voice when things turn ugly.

"Up here," I called back, keeping it under a whisper. "Both of us."

A flashlight beam slashed up the drywall, Owen right behind it. Shotgun in one hand, black radio in the other. The speaker hissed, spitting Helen Crowe’s clipped voice like acid down a pipe.

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