Page 68 of Vengeance

"So do I,” Bowie grumbled.

"Good—use it,” Vengeance ordered.

"If we have to." The radio clicked, and the transmission ended. Chloe looked toward the window. Morning sunlight spilled across the porch they'd spent countless evenings sitting on. She remembered laughing there while teaching Vengeance how to play gin rummy because he'd somehow made it to adulthood without learning how to play cards. She remembered watching him struggle to bake biscuits. He'd insisted measuring cups were "just suggestions,” and the biscuits had been hard enough to break a window. She'd laughed until she cried, but he'd eaten every single one anyway, because wasting food wasn't something either of them believed in.

Now, they were packing again, and it didn’t feel fair. "How long do we have until we need to leave?” she asked.

Vengeance looked around the cabin. "Thirty minutes."

"That fast?" she mumbled.

"The longer we stay, the easier we are to find." She nodded. Neither of them argued, because there was no use. They simply needed to start moving forward—something that she was used to by now.

She folded clothes while he cleaned every surface they'd touched over the last two months. He burned handwritten notes in the fireplace, collected shell casings from target practice behind the cabin, and removed fingerprints from the windows. Every movement was practiced and methodical.

"You've done this before,” she said.

He glanced over at her and shrugged. "Too many times."

She stopped packing. "How many safe houses have you stayed in?"

He hesitated. "Seven."

She blinked at him. "Seven?"

"Over the last fifteen years,” he added as though that would make a difference.

"You've never stayed anywhere long term, or had a real home?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not longer than eight months,” he admitted. Eight months. She couldn't imagine living like that—never unpacking, or buying furniture. Never planting flowers because you knew you'd leave before they bloomed.

She quietly zipped her duffel. "No wonder you don't own anything."

His lips twitched. "I own a motorcycle—well, I owned one before we had to abandon it in the woods when I got shot.”

"Will you take the one you’ve been working on?” she asked, nodding to the garage.

"Probably not,” he said. “It will just slow us down. The old pickup that Bowie left here for us will be safer.” She walked toward the bedroom and saw that the bed was still unmade. Their clothes from last night remained scattered across the floor. She stared at them for a long moment. They were a snapshot of a normal life. It was something she'd wanted for years without realizing it.

She picked up his T-shirt and raised it to her face. It still smelled like him—leather, soap, coffee, and something uniquely Vengeance. She folded it carefully. "You okay?"

She looked over her shoulder. "No."

He nodded. "Me neither."

She walked back toward him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always,” he whispered.

"If your mother is alive—” He visibly flinched. "What do you think she wants with me?"

He didn't answer immediately. "I don't think she wants you."

That wasn't comforting. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"I think she wants something you represent,” he said.

She frowned. "My family?"