Dante had chosen to drive.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as the car rolled down the quiet, uneven street.

The weight of Annabelle’s silence filled the small space, pressing on him like a storm about to break.

Something made his eyes flick into the rearview mirror, and he caught sight of Patrick Shaw in the distance.

He was standing near the edge of the house’s yard.

Dante’s jaw tightened at the sight of the man, his presence a thorn buried deep under his skin.

“Persistent bastard,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low enough that neither Annabelle nor Cathy would catch it.

Patrick’s figure faded into the...