Chapter 22 The Question

• The ride back to the safehouse is quiet — not the good kind. Not the tired-laughs, half-snored hum of Decker’s music in the back seat. Just the hush of streetlights brushing Knox’s jaw, the ghost of Talia’s lipstick still faint on his neck.
• Ellerei keeps her hands at ten and two on the wheel — thumbs brushing the cheap leather cover she’d stitched back together herself after Decker split it with his combat knife the first week they had this truck.
• Knox doesn’t say a word. Just sits there half-turned to the window, jaw working, boots planted wide like he might bolt if the cab got any smaller.