Two Weeks Later
The safehouse Sarah had arranged was different from all the others—not a cold, functional space designed for survival, but an actual house. Warm. Comfortable. A place where you could breathe without constantly checking exits.
Dante's mother—Margaret, I'd learned her name was—sat in the living room, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the warm afternoon. She was getting stronger, physically at least. But twenty years of captivity had left marks that went deeper than the body.
"Tea?" I offered, bringing in a tray.
"Thank you, dear." Her voice was soft, still uncertain. Like she was afraid the kindness would disappear if she spoke too loudly.
I settled onto the couch beside her while Dante talked quietly on the phone with Sarah in the next room. Something about witness protection protocols and federal testimony.
"He talks about you, you know," Margaret said suddenly.
I looked up. "What?"
