RILEY'S POV
The cab dropped me at the edge of a quiet suburban street that looked like it had been forgotten by time. Neat lawns, faded picket fences, porch lights flickering like they were tired of staying on. The address Kael had written was the last house on the cul-de-sac — a small, single-story brick place with peeling white shutters and a faded American flag hanging limp from the porch rail.
I paid the driver with another of Kael's crisp hundreds and told him to keep the change. He looked at me like I was crazy,my wild short hair wild, hoodie zipped to my chin, limping like I'd been hit by a truck .But he took the money and drove off without asking questions.
Good.
I didn't have answers anyway.
