His Sister's Keeper

ETHAN

Batumi, Georgia November

The rain had been coming down hard enough for the last twenty minutes to turn the port into black glass.

Water ran off the edge of my helmet, slipped beneath the collar of my jacket, and worked its way down the back of my neck despite the waterproof layer. I ignored it.

Cold was information.

So was discomfort.

Neither mattered unless it changed what I could do.

I stayed low behind a stack of shipping pallets and watched the warehouse across the service road through the narrow gap between two rusted containers.

Three exterior lights.

One dead.

One flickering.

One bright enough to silhouette anyone stupid enough to walk beneath it.

A man stood there now, smoking under the shallow overhang beside the loading door. Dark jacket. Rifle hanging at his chest. His attention was on his phone instead of the road.

That made him careless.

Careless was useful.

“Still one on the south entrance,” I said quietly.

Jackson shifted beside me.

His shoulder brushed mine for half a second before he settled behind the container again.

“Guy with the cigarette?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s been smoking that thing for six minutes.”

I glanced at him.

Rain had darkened the shoulders of his combat uniform almost to black. Water tracked from his lighter hair along his temple. His plate carrier was slick with it.

He looked completely unbothered.

“That bother you?” I asked.

“No. I’m judging him.”

“For smoking?”

“For taking six minutes to smoke one cigarette. Commit to something.”

I turned my attention back to the warehouse.

“Shut up.”

A pause.

Then, through the comms and far too pleased with himself, Jackson murmured, “There he is.”

I already knew what was coming.

“Don’t.”

“Ethanator.”

I closed my eyes for half a second.

Somewhere on the north side of the building, one of the guys breathed out what sounded suspiciously like a laugh over the encrypted channel.

I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek.

“I’m going to let them shoot you.”

“You’d miss me.”

“No.”

“That sounded immediate. Defensive, even.”

“Comms discipline.”

“Now you sound like Raven One.”

Our team lead cut in before I could answer.

“Four, stop flirting with Three and watch your sector.”

Jackson grinned.

I didn’t have to look at him to know.

“Copy,” he said.

I kept my eyes forward.

There were six of us spread around the warehouse, close enough to move quickly and far enough apart that one bad angle wouldn’t take all of us with it.

No flags.

No names.

No visible affiliation beyond muted gear and a small black raven stitched into the Velcro on our sleeves.

Officially, we weren’t here.

That covered most of Raven’s better assignments.

Three hours earlier, an American intelligence contractor operating under commercial cover had missed a scheduled check-in. Forty-seven minutes after that, surveillance showed him being moved from an apartment on the western edge of Batumi into the port district.

The local network supporting his cover had gone silent.

His emergency transmitter had come online for nineteen seconds.

Then nothing.

Our orders were simple.

Find him.

Get him out.

Do it before the men holding him moved him across the border or put a bullet in his head.

Simple orders usually meant someone else had already fucked up.

I checked the time in the corner of my display.

01:47.

The smoking guard dropped the cigarette, ground it beneath his boot, and reached for the door.

“Movement south,” I said.

“I see him.”

The guard opened the loading entrance and stepped inside.

The heavy steel door closed behind him.

Jackson’s voice changed.

The joking disappeared.

“South is clean.”

That was the thing about him.

He could be an asshole right up until the exact second he couldn’t afford to be.

Then he was one of the best men I’d ever worked beside.

Maybe the best.

“North clean,” someone reported.

“East clean.”

Our lead waited two beats.

“Raven, execute.”

I moved.

Jackson came with me.

We crossed the service road fast, boots splashing through shallow water. The wind off the Black Sea cut between the buildings and drove the rain sideways.

At the south entrance, I flattened against the wall beside the door.

Jackson took the opposite side.

I reached for the handle.

Locked.

He looked at me.

I held up two fingers.

Then one.

He shifted his rifle.

I pulled the compact breaching tool from my kit, set it, and worked the latch without enough noise to carry beyond the rain.

The door gave.

Jackson’s eyebrows lifted.

“Show-off,” he mouthed.

I eased it open.

Dark corridor.

Concrete floor.

Pipes overhead.

A faint chemical smell mixed with damp cardboard and diesel.

No footsteps.

No voices.

We slipped inside.

The door closed softly behind us.

Rain became a dull roar against sheet metal.

My world narrowed.

Doorway left.

Closed.

Open passage twenty feet ahead.

Stairs to the right.

Security camera mounted high in the corner, lens pointed toward the exterior door.

Dead.

That bothered me.

According to the surveillance package, the warehouse had functioning cameras at both loading entrances.

“Camera’s down,” I said.

“Same north side,” came the response.

Jackson glanced at me.

Not good.

People didn’t disable their own security unless they were trying not to create a record.

Or unless they knew someone was coming.

“Raven One,” I said. “Possible compromise.”

“I know. Keep moving.”

We did.

At the end of the corridor, I caught voices.

Not Georgian.

Russian.

Two men.

Maybe three.

I raised a fist.

Jackson froze.

I leaned closer to the wall.

One voice was irritated. Another answered quickly.

I caught only fragments.

Car.

Ten minutes.

Move him.

That was enough.

“They’re moving the package,” I whispered.

“How long?”

“Ten minutes.”

Raven One answered immediately.

“Then we’re out of time. Push.”

I looked at Jackson.

He gave one sharp nod.

We moved through the doorway.

The first man saw us too late.

His hand went toward the pistol at his waist.

Jackson hit him before he cleared leather.

The suppressed shot snapped through the room.

The second man lunged behind a steel workbench.

I dropped to one knee as rounds hit the doorframe behind us.

Concrete dust blew across my shoulder.

“Contact south.”

“Copy. Moving.”

The man behind the bench fired again.

Jackson shifted right.

I caught the movement in his peripheral before he made it and grabbed the back of his carrier.

“Wait.”

A round punched through the thin metal shelving where his head would’ve been.

He looked at the hole.

Then at me.

“I had it.”

“Sure.”

“I did.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Getting cocky, Reid.”

Another burst.

We both dropped lower.

I leaned just far enough to see the shooter’s position.

Workbench.

Support column.

Three feet of exposed floor between him and the next doorway.

He’d have to move eventually.

Unless—

A door slammed somewhere behind him.

Footsteps.

More than one.

“Two coming your way,” a voice warned over comms.

Of course they were.

I shifted position.

Jackson understood without being told.

That was what years did.

You stopped needing full sentences.

He covered the doorway while I moved along the wall.

The first man came through fast.

Jackson put him down.

The second stopped short and fired blind around the frame.

I caught the muzzle flash, moved, and returned two controlled shots.

Silence.

For half a second.

Then the man behind the workbench broke for the far door.

I fired once.

He dropped.

Jackson was already moving.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

I stood.

“Still cocky?”

“Extremely.”

We crossed the room.

The rest of Raven was converging from the north and east. No one wasted time talking about the bodies.

There’d be time for reports later.

Maybe.

Depends who decided the mission had officially happened.

We reached the interior stairwell.

A narrow flight of metal steps led down.

That wasn’t on the floor plan.

Jackson looked over the railing.

“Basement?”

“Apparently.”

“Love when intel’s accurate.”

“You complain too much.”

“You don’t complain enough. Balance.”

I started down.

He followed.

The air changed halfway.

Colder.

Damp.

The smell of rust and standing water.

At the bottom was another corridor, lit by bare fluorescent strips. One buzzed overhead.

The farthest door had a chair wedged beneath the handle.

Not to keep someone out.

To keep someone in.

I pointed.

Jackson nodded.

We approached from opposite sides.

I could hear something behind it.

Breathing.

Maybe coughing.

I removed the chair.

Opened the door.

A man in his early forties sat on the floor against the wall with his hands zip-tied in front of him.

Blood had dried along the side of his face.

One eye was swollen nearly shut.

His shirt was torn at the shoulder.

He looked up at us and didn’t move.

Smart.

I kept the rifle lowered but ready.

“Michael?”

His good eye sharpened.

Nobody outside a short list should have known that name.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Your ride.”

He stared at me.

Jackson appeared beside me.

“We’ve got him.”

“Condition?” Raven One asked.

“Conscious. Mobile, probably.”

Michael looked between us.

“American?”

Jackson glanced down at himself.

“Was it the accent?”

The man gave him nothing.

I crouched and cut the ties.

“You able to walk?”

“Yes.”

“Run?”

He flexed his hands, winced, then looked toward the door.

“If I have to.”

“You have to.”

That got his attention.

Jackson offered a hand.

Michael took it and let himself be pulled upright.

He swayed once.

I caught his upper arm.

“Head injury?”

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His mouth tightened.

“They hit me. I didn’t black out.”

“Any broken bones?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Jackson handed him a lightweight protective vest from his pack.

“Put this on.”

Michael stared at it.

“What happened upstairs?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Jackson said.

A loud metallic crash echoed somewhere above us.

Then gunfire.

Jackson looked at me.

I looked at him.

He sighed.

“Spoke too soon.”

The comms came alive.

“Vehicle just entered east gate. Four dismounts. Armed.”

“Second vehicle behind it.”

“Raven, package is secure?”

“Secure,” I answered.

“Then move. South route is burned. Take west service corridor and exit through maintenance.”

I looked at Michael.

“You stay between us. You stop when I tell you. You move when I tell you. You don’t improvise.”

He nodded.

Jackson leaned toward him.

“He means it. He gets grumpy when people improvise.”

I started walking.

“Jackson.”

“See?”

Michael almost smiled.

Good.

A man who could still find something funny was easier to move than one already convinced he was dead.

We took the west corridor at a fast pace.

Michael kept up better than I expected.

At the stairs, he stumbled.

Jackson steadied him from behind.

“Easy.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“That’s great. Keep being fine faster.”

We reached ground level.

Gunfire cracked from the east side of the warehouse.

Not suppressed anymore.

So much for quiet.

“West exit in thirty,” I said.

“Vehicle repositioning,” came the response. “Ninety seconds.”

Too long.

A side door burst open ahead of us.

Jackson moved first.

He shoved Michael behind a concrete support and fired.

The hostile went down but another appeared behind him.

I stepped past Jackson, put two rounds center mass, and kept moving.

“Clear.”

Jackson looked at me.

“That one was mine.”

“You were slow.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.”

He barked a laugh once.

Michael stared at us like he was reconsidering the people sent to rescue him.

“Move,” I said.

We hit the west maintenance door.

Locked from the outside.

Of course it was.

Jackson looked over his shoulder.

“You want to do your little magic trick again?”

“No time.”

I stepped back.

“Stand clear.”

His grin appeared.

“Now we’re talking.”

I drove the heel of my boot hard beside the latch.

Metal groaned.

Second hit.

The frame split.

The door slammed outward into the rain.

Cold air hit us immediately.

We went through.

A narrow alley ran between the warehouse and a row of stacked containers.

Our extraction vehicle wasn’t there yet.

I checked the corner.

Empty.

“Where the hell is the truck?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“We don’t have thirty.”

As if the universe wanted to prove the point, headlights appeared at the far end of the lane.

Not ours.

Jackson shoved Michael behind a container.

“Down.”

The vehicle accelerated.

Dark SUV.

No plates.

Two men visible through the windshield.

Passenger already raising something.

“Contact west.”

I fired.

Windshield starred.

The SUV swerved, clipped the corner of a container, and kept coming.

Jackson fired beside me.

The passenger disappeared from view.

The driver didn’t.

He punched the accelerator harder.

“Move!”

We split.

The SUV tore through the space where we’d been standing and slammed into a stack of plastic pallets.

Metal screamed.

Airbag deployed.

Jackson was already moving toward it.

I caught his carrier again.

He twisted.

“Jesus Christ, Ethan.”

“Leave it.”

“The driver—”

“Not our job.”

For half a second he looked like he wanted to argue.

Then he nodded.

That was another reason we worked.

Jackson could push every button I had when nothing mattered.

When it did, he listened.

Our extraction truck rounded the corner.

Rear door opened before it stopped.

One of Raven leaned out.

“Get him in!”

Jackson grabbed Michael beneath one arm.

I took the other.

We hauled him toward the truck.

Rounds hit the container behind us.

I felt one tug at the fabric high on my shoulder.

No pain.

No impact worth registering.

We shoved Michael inside.

Jackson climbed after him.

I turned, fired toward the muzzle flashes at the far end of the alley, then backed toward the vehicle.

Someone grabbed the shoulder strap of my carrier and yanked me in.

The door slammed.

The truck moved immediately.

Hard.

I caught the overhead rail before I hit the opposite wall.

Jackson didn’t.

He landed sideways against one of the bench seats.

“Motherfucker.”

I looked at him.

“You good?”

He rubbed his shoulder.

“No. I’ve been gravely injured.”

“You’re talking.”

“Barely.”

“You’ll live.”

“Cold.”

Michael sat strapped against the wall, breathing hard.

Blood had started moving again from the cut near his hairline.

A medic from the team shifted in front of him.

“Look at me.”

Michael did.

Flashlight into one eye.

Then the other.

The rest of us checked ourselves.

Habit.

Hands.

Arms.

Torso.

Legs.

I found the point where the round had pulled at my outer layer.

Fabric torn.

Armor untouched.

Jackson noticed.

His expression changed.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

He reached over.

I slapped his hand away.

“Sit down.”

“Did you get hit?”

“No.”

“You have a hole in your shoulder.”

“In the jacket.”

He leaned closer anyway.

“You sure?”

I looked at him.

“Do I look unsure?”

“You always look pissed off. Makes diagnosis difficult.”

I checked the spot myself.

No blood.

Nothing beneath it.

“Plate edge took it.”

Jackson’s jaw loosened.

“Lucky.”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“It didn’t penetrate.”

“That’s generally what lucky means.”

“That’s what armor is for.”

He stared at me for a second, then shook his head.

“Every single conversation with you is exhausting.”

“Stop starting them.”

Across from us, one of the guys laughed under his breath.

Jackson pointed at him.

“Don’t encourage him.”

The truck hit another turn.

We all leaned with it.

Rain hammered the roof.

Our lead was on the radio beside the rear doors, giving short updates to whoever was waiting beyond Batumi.

No names.

No details.

Package secure.

One injury, noncritical.

No team casualties.

Exfiltration proceeding.

Clean enough.

By the time we cleared the industrial district, the adrenaline had already started draining out of the space.

That was always the strangest part.

Ten minutes earlier, people were trying to kill us.

Now Jackson was peeling off one wet glove with his teeth and complaining because water had gotten into his left boot.

“You know what I hate?” he asked.

I leaned my head against the metal wall behind me.

“You?”

He ignored that.

“Wet socks.”

“You joined the Marines.”

“Which should come with some kind of wet-sock immunity after enough years.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Thank you, Ethan. Valuable contribution.”

Michael glanced between us.

“You two always like this?”

Jackson answered immediately.

“Yes.”

“No,” I said.

He pointed at me.

“That. Exactly that.”

I closed my eyes.

The truck engine vibrated through the floor beneath my boots.

Mission done.

Package alive.

Everyone breathing.

That was enough.

Jackson bumped his knee against mine.

I opened one eye.

“What?”

“You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“Improving morale.”

“You’re the reason morale needs improving.”

His grin widened.

“Ethanator strikes again.”

I let my head fall back against the wall.

“Keep saying it.”

“What are you gonna do?”

I looked at him.

He knew the answer before I said it.

“Leave you here next time.”

Jackson laughed.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

Then he settled back against the bench, rainwater still dripping from the edge of his hair, and closed his eyes like he hadn’t spent the last half hour getting shot at.

I watched him for a second.

Then looked away.

He trusted me to get him home.

I trusted him to do the same.

Neither of us ever said it.

We didn’t need to.

By the time we got airborne, I’d been awake for twenty-three hours.

Not that it mattered.

Sleep had never been something I needed much of. Four hours was enough. Three if it had to be. Less if somebody was paying attention to the wrong door.

The transport aircraft vibrated beneath my boots, a steady mechanical hum that settled into the bones after long enough.

Most of Raven had gone quiet.

One of the guys was asleep two seats down with his head tipped back against the webbing. Another had stretched his legs into the aisle and pulled a cap over his eyes. Raven One sat farther forward with a tablet balanced against one knee, going through whatever version of the mission report would eventually exist.

Michael was gone.

Transferred out before we’d even reached the airfield.

One vehicle.

One medical team.

No goodbye.

No questions.

That was usually how it worked.

We got people out.

Someone else took them from there.

I didn’t need to know where.

I’d changed out of the wet shell and armor, but I was still in combat pants and boots, black T-shirt sticking slightly between my shoulder blades where I hadn’t dried off properly.

The tear in the shoulder of my jacket was folded into my pack.

Jackson had tried to make me throw it away.

I’d ignored him.

It was a jacket.

It still worked.

My head rested against the wall behind me, eyes closed.

Not sleeping.

Just enjoying five uninterrupted seconds without someone talking.

“Reid.”

There it was.

I kept my eyes shut.

“No.”

Jackson sat down across from me.

“I haven’t asked anything yet.”

“That’s why I’m getting ahead of it.”

“You’re becoming difficult.”

“Becoming?”

“That’s fair.”

Silence.

For maybe three seconds.

Then—

“What are you doing Thursday?”

I opened one eye.

“What?”

“Thursday.”

“I heard you.”

“Good. Then answer.”

I looked at him.

He’d changed too.

Dark green hoodie. Combat pants. Boots unlaced at the top.

His hair was still damp from the shower, lighter now without rain flattening it against his head. He looked too awake for someone who’d been on the same schedule I had.

That annoyed me on principle.

“What’s Thursday?”

He stared.

Actually stared.

Then his face changed like he’d just realized something personally offensive.

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Thursday.”

I waited.

His eyebrows went up.

I gave him nothing.

“Thanksgiving, asshole.”

I looked away again.

“Right.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Something that suggests you live in the same country as the rest of us.”

“I know what Thanksgiving is.”

“Strong evidence to the contrary.”

I folded my arms.

Jackson leaned back in his seat, studying me.

I didn’t like that look.

It usually meant he was about to involve himself in something that wasn’t his business.

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing nothing?”

“That’s usually what nothing means.”

“You staying on base?”

“Probably.”

He nodded once.

Too casually.

I narrowed my eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re bad at that.”

“At what?”

“Pretending you don’t have something to say.”

“I have a lot to say.”

“That’s the problem.”

He grinned.

Then he leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.

“You’re coming with me.”

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“It was easy.”

“You don’t even know where.”

“Don’t care.”

“Port Angeles.”

“No.”

“You’ve never been.”

“Still no.”

“You’d like it.”

“No.”

“You like rain.”

“I tolerate rain.”

“You tolerate everything.”

“Exactly.”

He sat back again.

“June’s making dinner.”

I knew the name.

Of course I knew the name.

Anyone who spent more than ten minutes around Jackson knew the name.

June called.

June got into college.

June sent a picture.

June had an exam.

June bought some plant and was apparently very proud of it.

June had gone hiking alone and Jackson had lost his mind because she didn’t answer her phone for four hours.

June needed new tires.

June said he looked stupid with longer hair.

June thought—

June said—

June wanted—

His little sister existed in every part of his life whether she was there or not.

I’d never met her.

I’d seen maybe two photographs over the years, neither recent enough to matter.

In my head she was still some kid in oversized sweatshirts with blond hair and a brother who watched her like a prison guard.

“Your little sister is cooking Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked.

“She can cook.”

“She can?”

“Of course she can.”

“You can’t.”

“That’s why she’s cooking.”

I looked at him.

“You’re selling this badly.”

“You haven’t tasted her food.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

He shook his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By everyone.”

“Probably.”

He went quiet for a moment.

The aircraft hummed around us.

I could feel him still watching me.

Eventually I said, “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re thinking.”

“That’s usually encouraged.”

“Not when it involves me.”

He smiled slowly.

There it was.

The look.

Fuck.

“Come home with me, Reid.”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You asked.”

“I’m not asking now.”

“That sounded a lot like asking.”

“It wasn’t.”

I glanced across the cabin.

Nobody appeared interested.

Which meant at least half of them were listening.

Jackson didn’t care.

He rarely did.

“I’m not spending Thanksgiving at your house.”

“Why?”

“Because I said no.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It works for me.”

He watched me for another second.

Then he nodded once, like he’d reached some internal conclusion.

“What are you gonna do instead?”

I didn’t answer.

He did it for me.

“Eat something from the chow hall?”

“Maybe.”

“Sit in your room?”

“Sounds peaceful.”

“Go to the gym?”

“Also peaceful.”

“Watch absolutely nothing on TV because you refuse to pay for half the streaming services everyone else has?”

“I don’t need seven subscriptions.”

“That is not the point.”

“I’m not sure you have one.”

“My point is your plan is depressing.”

“It’s not depressing.”

“It’s aggressively depressing.”

“I’ll survive.”

“That’s kind of your whole personality.”

I looked at him.

“Done?”

“Not even close.”

I rubbed a hand over my face.

There were very few people I allowed to talk to me this much.

Jackson knew it.

He abused the privilege.

Frequently.

“You know,” he continued, “normal people spend holidays with other people.”

“I’m not normal.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“Jackson.”

“What?”

“Drop it.”

His expression shifted.

Not much.

Enough.

The humor stayed, but something underneath it settled.

He knew when I meant it.

Usually.

This time he ignored me anyway.

“Come for a few days.”

“No.”

“Wednesday through Sunday.”

“No.”

“Thursday through Saturday.”

“No.”

“Fine. Thursday night.”

“No.”

His jaw moved like he was trying not to smile.

“You negotiating with yourself now?”

“I’m rejecting you consistently.”

“That’s commitment.”

I closed my eyes again.

Maybe if I stopped responding, he’d get bored.

He didn’t.

“June’s gonna be there.”

My eyes stayed closed.

“I assumed.”

“She’s home anyway. College is local.”

“Good for her.”

“She started this fall.”

“You told me.”

“I did?”

“Several times.”

He looked pleased.

“You listen.”

“Unfortunately.”

“She likes environmental science.”

“You told me that too.”

His grin widened.

“Holy shit. You really do listen.”

“I listen because you don’t stop talking.”

“That’s basically friendship.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is for us.”

I opened my eyes.

He was still grinning.

I hated that he wasn’t wrong.

He leaned back, folding his arms.

“She knows about you.”

That got my attention for half a second.

“Why?”

“Because I mention you.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“What do you tell her?”

“That you’re deeply charming.”

I stared at him.

“Relax. Mostly that you’re an asshole.”

“That’s better.”

“And that you’re good at your job.”

I didn’t respond.

“And that you have the emotional range of a locked door.”

“Even better.”

“And that I’m pretty sure you sleep standing up.”

“Anything else?”

“Probably.”

“Great.”

“She thinks Ethanator is funny.”

My head came up.

“You told her that?”

“Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Because it is.”

“It isn’t.”

“She disagrees.”

“She doesn’t know me.”

“Yet.”

I caught the word.

So did he.

His mouth twitched.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say she will when you come home with me.”

“I’m not coming.”

“Sure.”

“Jackson.”

“Ethan.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Neither of us moved.

Then somebody farther down the cabin said without opening his eyes, “Just go, Three. He’s not gonna shut up.”

Jackson pointed in that direction.

“See?”

I didn’t even turn.

“Stay out of it.”

“Trying to sleep.”

“Then sleep.”

“Can’t. Four’s conducting a hostage negotiation.”

Jackson looked offended.

“I’m offering hospitality.”

“You’ve asked him nine times.”

“Has it been nine?”

“Twelve.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

“Every one of you can go to hell.”

A low laugh moved through the cabin.

Raven One didn’t look up from his tablet.

“Quiet down.”

Jackson immediately lowered his voice.

“See? Now you’ve disturbed leadership.”

“I’ve disturbed leadership?”

“You’re being difficult.”

I stared at him long enough that he finally laughed.

Then the cabin settled again.

The joking thinned out.

The aircraft continued west.

Jackson’s expression changed with it.

He leaned his head back against the frame behind him and looked toward the dark interior of the plane.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“Come home with me.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

He didn’t fill the silence this time.

That was how I knew he was serious.

I looked down at my hands.

A thin scrape crossed one knuckle from the warehouse.

Nothing.

Would be gone in a few days.

“I don’t do that stuff.”

Jackson looked over.

“What stuff?”

I gave him a look.

He waited.

“Family stuff,” I said. “You know that.”

Something in his face stilled.

Not pity.

Jackson knew better than that.

He knew enough about where I’d come from to know pity was the fastest way to make me leave a room.

He’d never asked for details I didn’t offer.

Never pushed.

Never tried to turn my childhood into some tragic conversation neither of us wanted.

He knew I’d grown up in the system.

He knew there’d been different houses, different adults, different rules.

He knew I’d enlisted at eighteen because the Marines had offered something simple.

A place.

A purpose.

A bed that stayed mine until someone ordered me somewhere else.

That was enough.

“Yeah,” he said.

A beat.

“I know.”

I looked away.

Rain no longer hit metal around us.

Only engine noise.

A little vibration.

The faint smell of fuel and coffee that had been sitting in a thermos too long.

Jackson tapped his boot once against the floor.

“You’re still coming.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead I looked at him.

“You just ignored everything I said.”

“No. I heard you.”

“Didn’t sound like it.”

“I heard that you don’t do family stuff.”

“Good.”

“My family doesn’t give a shit.”

I frowned.

“What?”

“You’re not being asked to perform.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You don’t have to sit there and tell childhood stories. You don’t have to hug anybody. You don’t have to say what you’re thankful for.”

“That happens?”

“June might make us.”

“No.”

“She’ll probably let you skip it if you look sufficiently miserable.”

“I can manage that.”

“I know.”

His mouth twitched.

Then he shrugged.

“You eat. You drink a beer. You sit somewhere warm. You let my sister overfeed you because she thinks every man over six feet needs two portions of everything.”

I looked at him.

“She does?”

“She has issues.”

“With tall people?”

“With feeding people.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“It is. Last Christmas I gained six pounds in nine days.”

“Sounds like a lack of discipline.”

“Fuck you.”

I almost smiled.

His eyes narrowed.

“Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“That was absolutely a smile.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“Twenty-three years on earth and I finally saw it.”

“Twenty-four.”

“What?”

“You’re twenty-four.”

He blinked.

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“You said twenty-three.”

“I was talking about you.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“Exactly.”

I stared at him.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s generous.”

“Come to Port Angeles.”

“No.”

He groaned.

I looked away.

Then he said, “June will like you.”

There was something different in the way he said it.

Not teasing.

Not loaded.

Just matter-of-fact.

I looked back at him.

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“She likes difficult things.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment to either of us.”

“It wasn’t.”

I shook my head.

He grinned again.

“She’ll probably decide you need fixing.”

“She’ll be disappointed.”

“She’s stubborn.”

“So are you.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Another reason not to go.”

“That’s not how reasons work.”

“It is for me.”

He leaned forward again.

“What if I promise to leave you alone after this?”

“You won’t.”

“No.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“I’m incredibly honest.”

“You lied about that bar in Virginia.”

“That wasn’t a lie.”

“You said it was quiet.”

“It was quiet when I went.”

“There were two hundred people in there.”

“Busy night.”

“You said the food was good.”

“The fries were good.”

“They were frozen.”

“Most fries are.”

I stared at him.

He lifted both hands.

“Fine. Bad example.”

“You think?”

He sat back.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

I could have ended it there.

Should have.

There was no reason to go.

We’d land stateside, debrief, clear our gear, get a couple days off.

Jackson would fly west.

I’d stay on base.

Same as every holiday I’d spent since enlisting.

Nothing wrong with it.

No expectations.

No forced conversation.

No sitting at somebody else’s table wondering where to put my hands while everyone around me acted like belonging was effortless.

I didn’t need that.

Never had.

Jackson closed his eyes.

For the first time since sitting down, he looked tired.

Not mission tired.

Something else.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Dad would’ve liked you.”

The words landed wrong.

Not hard.

Just somewhere I didn’t expect.

I looked at him.

He kept his eyes closed.

Jackson didn’t talk about his father much.

Not because it was forbidden.

Because some things sat better when nobody touched them.

I knew the basics.

Their mother left when June was little.

Their father raised them.

He died years ago.

Jackson had become whatever June needed after that.

Brother.

Parent.

Problem.

Pain in the ass.

Probably all four.

I knew enough not to ask more.

“That supposed to help?” I said.

His mouth curved slightly.

“No.”

“Good.”

“June will probably like you less.”

“Better.”

“She has standards.”

“Smart.”

“She also has terrible judgment.”

“There it is.”

He opened one eye.

“I’m serious, though.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Come.”

I exhaled.

Slowly.

“Why do you care?”

He opened both eyes then.

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because I want you there.”

Simple.

No speech.

No pity.

No bullshit.

That was Jackson.

He could spend twenty minutes making jokes to get where he wanted.

Then, when it mattered, he’d say the one thing that made arguing harder.

I hated that about him.

I looked down at the floor.

The plane vibrated beneath my boots.

A few days.

That was all.

Eat.

Sleep somewhere that wasn’t base housing.

Listen to Jackson annoy his sister.

Leave.

Nothing complicated.

“You owe me,” I said.

His eyebrows rose.

“For what?”

“For this.”

“You haven’t agreed yet.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“That’s basically yes.”

“It isn’t.”

“Close enough.”

“I get a room with a door.”

He grinned.

“Oh, you’re coming.”

“I said—”

“Guest room. Door. Lock. Everything.”

“I’m leaving Saturday.”

“Sunday.”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday night.”

“Saturday morning.”

“Afternoon.”

I looked at him.

“Morning.”

He considered it.

“Fine.”

“You agreed too fast.”

“I’m adaptable.”

“You’re planning something.”

“I’m planning turkey.”

“You’re not cooking.”

“June is.”

“Exactly.”

He leaned back, satisfied.

I immediately regretted everything.

“Don’t make this weird.”

Jackson looked almost offended.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“I’m a gracious host.”

“It’s not your house.”

“It’s my house.”

“Partly.”

“I grew up there.”

“Not the same thing.”

“It’s legally half mine.”

I looked at him.

“Why are we discussing property law?”

“Because you challenged my host status.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You’re coming.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Say, ‘Jackson, I would be honored to spend Thanksgiving with you and your lovely sister.’”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

“Say it.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Too late.”

“I haven’t signed anything.”

“Verbal contract.”

“There was no offer and acceptance.”

“You accepted the guest room.”

“That was conditional.”

“Jesus. You should’ve been a lawyer.”

“I hate lawyers.”

“You hate everyone.”

“Not everyone.”

The words were out before I thought about them.

Jackson went still for half a second.

Then his expression softened in a way I immediately disliked.

“Aw.”

“Don’t.”

“You like me.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“My best friend likes me.”

“I can still change my mind.”

He put a hand over his chest.

“This is huge.”

“Jackson.”

“Do you want to hug?”

“No.”

“Come on, Ethanator.”

I leaned forward.

He laughed and raised both hands.

“Okay. Okay.”

I sat back again.

He was still smiling when he closed his eyes.

I stared at him for another second.

Then at the dark floor.

Best friend.

I wouldn’t have used the words.

Jackson would.

He used words for everything.

But he wasn’t wrong.

That was the problem.

He’d made himself difficult to get rid of years ago.

Somewhere between training, bad food, worse weather, and too many nights spent trusting each other with things that mattered, he’d become the closest thing I had to family.

Maybe that was why I’d agreed.

Not because of Thanksgiving.

Not because of Port Angeles.

Definitely not because of some little sister I’d heard about a thousand times and never met.

Because Jackson had asked me to come home with him.

And for reasons I wasn’t interested in examining too closely, saying no had started to feel harder than saying yes.

I closed my eyes again.

Across from me, Jackson spoke without opening his.

“June’s gonna be so curious.”

My eyes opened.

“What does that mean?”

He smiled.

“Nothing.”

“Jackson.”

“Go to sleep.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Good night, Reid.”

“It’s daytime.”

“Not where we are.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Go to sleep.”

I watched him for a second longer.

Then shook my head and leaned back.

A few days.

That was it.

A meal.

A guest room.

A flight back.

Easy.

I had no idea why the thought made me feel like I’d just agreed to something much bigger.

By the time we reached Washington, I’d changed my mind about going at least six times.

I just hadn’t told Jackson.

Mostly because he would’ve enjoyed it too much.

The farther west we traveled, the more the entire thing started to feel unnecessary.

We’d cleared debrief.

Turned in what needed turning in.

Checked weapons, gear, reports.

Raven scattered for a few days like none of us had spent the beginning of the week in a warehouse on the other side of the world.

Jackson had packed in under ten minutes.

I’d watched him throw clothes into a duffel without folding a single thing.

Then he’d looked at mine.

“You own anything that isn’t black?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Gray.”

He’d stared at me.

I’d stared back.

He’d shaken his head and kept packing.

That had been yesterday.

Now I sat in the passenger seat of Jackson’s gray Toyota 4Runner while rain streaked across the windshield and he drove west through Washington like he had somewhere important to be.

He kept the 4Runner in long-term storage outside Sea-Tac whenever he was gone for extended stretches, which apparently made more sense to him than renting something every time he came home.

The farther west we traveled, the heavier the sky seemed to get.

Not light gray.

The heavy kind.

Clouds sitting low enough over the mountains that parts of them disappeared entirely.

Trees crowded both sides of the road—dark, wet, endless.

Fir.

Cedar.

Spruce.

Everything green even in November.

I’d expected Washington to look like that.

I hadn’t expected to like it.

Jackson glanced over.

“You’re doing it again.”

I kept looking through the windshield.

“Doing what?”

“Pretending you’re not interested.”

“In trees?”

“In where I grew up.”

“I’m looking out a window.”

“You’ve been looking out that window for forty minutes.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Conversation.”

“No.”

He sighed dramatically.

“You know, this is exactly why I invited you.”

“Because I don’t talk?”

“Because clearly you need social rehabilitation.”

“I was fine.”

“You spent last Thanksgiving lifting weights and eating chicken.”

“That was fine.”

“Plain chicken.”

“It had seasoning.”

“Salt.”

“Counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

I adjusted my arm against the door.

The black hoodie under my leather jacket was warm enough that I’d regretted the jacket for the first half hour out of Seattle.

Then the temperature had dropped.

Now it made sense.

Jackson had changed into jeans, a dark green henley, and a brown jacket that looked old enough to have belonged to him before the Marines.

Maybe it had.

He looked different in civilian clothes.

Younger.

Less contained.

Not because the uniform changed his face.

Because everything about him had relaxed the farther we got from base.

His shoulders.

His hands on the wheel.

The way he drove with one wrist resting over the top instead of sitting rigid and alert.

Home did that to him.

I noticed because I noticed things.

Not because I cared.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Quieter.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is with you.”

I turned my head.

“Are you going to narrate me the entire trip?”

“If necessary.”

“Pull over.”

“No.”

“I’ll walk.”

“We’re still hours out.”

“Worth it.”

He laughed.

I looked away again.

Rain tapped steadily against the glass.

The road curved through another stretch of forest.

Every so often the trees opened enough to show water through the distance.

Gray.

Cold-looking.

Jackson pointed ahead.

“Wait until you see the Strait.”

“I’ve seen water.”

“Not this water.”

“It’s still water.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Because you keep earning it.”

I ignored him.

He drove another mile.

Then—

“June likes this road.”

There it was.

I looked over slowly.

Jackson didn’t notice.

Or pretended not to.

“She knows every trail out here,” he continued. “Probably better than anyone I know.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“She’ll disappear into the woods for six hours and come back like she went to the grocery store.”

“You said you hated when she does that.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“I can hate it and still know she’s good at it.”

“That sounds healthy.”

“She grew up out there.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah, but I have better survival instincts.”

I looked at him.

“You almost walked into a bullet two nights ago.”

“That was tactical.”

“I pulled you backward.”

“Tactically.”

I turned back toward the windshield.

He grinned.

“June would agree with me.”

“I haven’t met her and I already doubt that.”

“You haven’t met her and you already have opinions.”

“I have an opinion about you.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“No.”

“You’ll see.”

I’d been hearing that for the last day.

You’ll see.

June makes good pie.

You’ll see.

The house is better than base.

You’ll see.

Port Angeles isn’t that bad.

You’ll see.

At some point I’d stopped answering.

It hadn’t stopped him.

***

The ferry ride did nothing to improve Jackson’s ability to shut up.

He bought coffee.

Bad coffee.

Then stood near the window talking about the Olympic Peninsula while I drank mine and watched steel-colored water roll beneath us.

The wind outside looked vicious.

People stood on deck anyway.

Tourists, mostly.

A couple with a kid in a red jacket pressed against the railing while his mother tried to keep his hood on.

Jackson followed my gaze.

“You hate children too?”

“No.”

“Good. June likes kids.”

I looked at him.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

His expression was innocent.

“Nothing.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep asking.”

“I’m asking because you keep bringing her up.”

“She’s my sister.”

“So?”

“So I talk about her.”

“Constantly.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”

He took another drink.

“She’s prettier than me.”

“I’d hope so.”

He choked on his coffee.

I looked out the window.

“You walked into that.”

“That might be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Not close.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m telling her.”

“Go ahead.”

“She’ll love you.”

“You’ve said that too.”

“No, I said she’ll like you.”

“Difference?”

“Big one.”

I glanced at him.

He was smiling again.

I didn’t ask.

The ferry rocked slightly beneath us.

Beyond the windows, the horizon blurred into cloud and sea.

I checked my phone.

Nothing important.

Three Raven messages.

One logistics update.

One guy sending a picture of a beer.

One telling everyone not to respond to the first guy because he was apparently already drunk.

I put the phone away.

Jackson watched.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you look like somebody personally offended you by existing.”

“That’s just my face.”

“I know.”

He smiled into his cup.

I regretted coming again.

**?

We reached Port Angeles late in the afternoon.

The rain had eased to something finer by then.

Not enough to need an umbrella.

Enough to cling to the windshield and make every streetlight blur at the edges.

The city wasn’t what I expected.

Smaller.

Quieter.

Water on one side.

Mountains rising behind it.

Low buildings.

Coffee shops.

Old storefronts.

A few people moving quickly under jackets and hoods.

Nothing rushed.

Jackson rolled down his window at a light.

Cold air came in immediately.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Smells right.”

I looked at him.

He inhaled like an idiot.

“Rain. Salt. Trees.”

“It smells wet.”

“Exactly.”

He left the window down.

I reached over and hit the switch.

It went up.

He hit his.

It went back down.

I stared at him.

He smiled.

I raised it again.

“Touch that button one more time.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He laughed.

“Ethanator’s getting territorial about climate control.”

“I’ll break your finger.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me.”

The light turned green.

He drove.

I watched the streets pass.

Every few blocks, Jackson pointed something out.

Elementary school.

Old diner his father used to take them to.

The turn toward the waterfront.

The road June used to bike down as a kid.

He didn’t say any of it like a tour guide.

More like the memories were there whether he meant to touch them or not.

Then we turned off the main road.

The houses spread farther apart.

More trees.

Wet fences.

Longer driveways.

The kind of neighborhood where porch lights mattered more than streetlights.

Jackson slowed.

“Almost there.”

My first instinct was stupidly physical.

A tightening between my shoulders.

Not fear.

Not nerves.

Readiness.

Like I was approaching something I hadn’t assessed yet.

I hated unfamiliar houses.

Always had.

There was something about walking into another person’s space that made me aware of where everything was.

Doors.

Windows.

Stairs.

Who sat where.

Which room belonged to whom.

Some habits didn’t disappear just because nobody was armed.

Jackson turned onto a narrow road lined with tall evergreens.

Branches hung heavy and dark from the rain.

Then he slowed again.

“There.”

The house sat back from the road behind a patch of wet grass and towering trees.

Two stories.

Dark muted green siding.

White trim.

A broad covered porch ran across the front.

Warm yellow light glowed behind several windows.

The roof was slick with rain, moss visible along one edge.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing new.

It looked lived in.

There was a small stack of split firewood beneath one side of the porch.

A pair of muddy boots beside the door.

One planter that looked mostly dead.

Another somehow still green.

A porch swing moved slightly in the wind.

Jackson pulled into the driveway.

The engine stopped.

Silence settled around us.

Not real silence.

Rain ticked against the roof.

Wind moved somewhere high in the trees.

A dog barked far enough away that it didn’t matter.

Jackson unbuckled.

I didn’t.

He looked over.

“You planning to sleep in the car?”

“Considering it.”

“No.”

“I like the car.”

“You have a room.”

“I have a seat.”

“You have legs too. Use them.”

I stared through the windshield at the house.

Warm windows.

Curtains.

A wreath already hung on the door.

Not Christmas.

Autumn.

Leaves, pinecones, something orange tied through it.

Family stuff.

Exactly what I didn’t do.

Jackson opened his door.

Cold air filled the car.

“Come on.”

“I’m regretting this.”

“I know.”

“You sound happy about that.”

“I am.”

He got out.

I waited three seconds longer than necessary.

Then opened my door.

The cold hit clean and damp.

I grabbed my duffel from the back.

Jackson already had his over one shoulder.

He looked toward the house and smiled.

Not at me.

At it.

That was different too.

I shut the door.

“You tell her we’re here?”

“No.”

I stopped.

“What?”

He kept walking.

“She knows we were coming today.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“She’ll figure it out.”

“Jackson.”

He glanced back.

“What?”

“You didn’t tell her when?”

“My flight schedule changes all the time.”

“You knew when we left Seattle.”

“She doesn’t need minute-by-minute updates.”

“You call her when she hikes for four hours.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“She’s in the woods.”

I stared at him.

He kept walking.

“Unbelievable.”

“She’ll be happy.”

“You should warn people before you bring strangers into their house.”

“You’re not a stranger.”

“To her, I am.”

“She’s heard enough about you.”

“That makes it worse.”

He laughed.

I followed him up the walkway.

Rain darkened the shoulders of my leather jacket.

The porch boards were damp beneath my boots but solid.

Jackson dropped his duffel beside the door.

He didn’t knock.

His hand went straight to the knob.

Locked.

He frowned.

Then knocked.

I looked at him.

“You don’t have a key?”

“I do.”

“Then why did you knock?”

He glanced toward the window.

“Because she’s home.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“You talk too much.”

We waited.

Footsteps sounded inside.

Light.

Quick.

Something moved past the frosted glass beside the door.

Jackson’s face changed before the door even opened.

A smile.

Real one.

The kind I didn’t see on missions.

Then the lock turned.

The door opened.

And trouble stood on the other side.

For one second, my brain didn’t connect her to anything Jackson had ever said.

Not little sister.

Not the old photographs.

Not the kid I’d built in my head from years of stories.

Just—

A woman.

Blond hair fell loose past her shoulders in thick waves, slightly messy like she’d been running her hands through it.

A fitted cream knit top hugged her upper body, the square neckline leaving her collarbones bare. A long brown skirt scattered with small white dots fell from her waist almost to her ankles, and brown high-top Converse peeked out beneath the hem.

Her cheeks were a little pink from the warmth inside the house.

Her eyes went straight to Jackson.

Dark brown.

They lit up.

“Jack.”

There was so much affection packed into one word that I almost looked away.

Jackson dropped his bag.

June stepped forward and wrapped both arms around him.

He caught her easily.

Lifted her about an inch off the floor.

She laughed.

“Put me down.”

“You missed me.”

“I did until right now.”

“Liar.”

“You smell like an airport.”

“That’s love.”

“That’s disgusting.”

He set her down.

She shoved lightly at his chest.

He messed up her hair.

She slapped his hand away.

Normal.

Easy.

Something I’d seen other people do my entire life without ever understanding why it looked so effortless.

Then Jackson stepped slightly aside.

And she saw me.

The change was immediate.

Small.

But there.

Her smile didn’t disappear.

It just stopped being automatic.

Her eyes moved to mine.

Then stayed there.

One second.

Two.

A little too long.

I’d been looked at before.

By women.

By men deciding whether I was a problem.

By people trying to read what I wasn’t saying.

June looked at me differently.

Curious first.

Then something warmer.

Something that sharpened when her gaze dropped briefly over me before coming back to my face.

Not subtle enough.

Jackson had not exaggerated one thing.

She was terrible at hiding what she thought.

And apparently what she thought of me.

I should’ve looked away.

I didn’t.

Her hair was lighter than Jackson’s.

Her face softer.

Younger.

But not a kid.

That was the first problem.

The second was the fact that I noticed.

The third was the way her lips parted slightly when our eyes held.

Then she smiled.

Not the wide smile she’d given Jackson.

Smaller.

Almost uncertain.

And somehow worse.

Jackson looked between us.

I saw it happen from the corner of my eye.

The beginning of something in his expression.

Interest.

Amusement.

No.

Absolutely not.

“This is Ethan,” he said.

June’s eyes stayed on mine.

“I know.”

Of course she did.

Jackson talked too much.

Her voice was softer than I expected.

Warm.

She glanced at her brother.

“You’ve shown me pictures.”

“Bad ones, I hope,” I said before I could decide not to.

Her gaze came back to me.

The smile grew.

“A few.”

Jackson pointed at her.

“Careful.”

June ignored him.

“You look different.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“From?”

“The pictures.”

“Those were old.”

“So were some of mine.”

There was something in the way she said it.

Nothing obvious.

Nothing I could accuse her of.

Jackson was already reaching for his bag again.

“Are we standing on the porch all night?”

June blinked like she’d forgotten he was there.

That was a problem too.

She stepped backward.

“No. Come in.”

Jackson walked past her.

I didn’t move immediately.

She held the door.

I stepped toward it.

Her eyes lifted.

And kept lifting.

I was used to that.

People underestimated my height until they were standing close.

June was shorter than she’d looked from the doorway.

A lot shorter.

Her head tipped back slightly when I stopped in front of her.

Neither of us said anything.

I caught the faint scent of something warm from inside.

Cinnamon.

Roasted something.

Maybe apples.

And underneath it, something lighter from her shampoo.

I shouldn’t have noticed that either.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the door.

Still looking at me.

Still not hiding it.

I could almost hear Jackson’s voice from the plane.

-June’s gonna be so curious.

Fuck him.

“Hi,” she said.

Like she hadn’t already spoken to me.

I looked at her.

“Hi.”

Her smile came back.

Slowly.

Trouble.

I stepped past her into the house.

Warm air closed around me.

Behind me, June shut the door.

I heard the lock click.

Jackson called something from deeper inside.

She answered him.

I didn’t catch what either of them said.

I was too busy staring straight ahead and reminding myself of three things.

She was eighteen.

She was Jackson’s sister.

And I was staying in this house for the next few days.

Absolutely fucking not.

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