The bags sat by the front door.

Elena stood in the hallway with the thick residual heat of the kitchen claiming still warm between her legs and the lower marks aching under her sweater in a deep continuous line. Marcus had confirmed the rental. The car was ready. The practical shape was finished in the only way it could be—urgent, imperfect, and pointed at nightfall. Upstairs the master bedroom had stayed quiet since Victoria drew the line. No footsteps. No drawers. Only the knowledge that she was still in the house, still breathing the same air for a few more hours, still capable of opening the door and walking into...