“Yes, please, Marcus,” I replied, a small, genuine smile finally touching the corners of my mouth. “And make sure they put deadbolts on every single door.”
Two hours later, the house was completely silent again.
The police cruiser had long since driven away with Madison in the back seat, and Caleb had finally loaded his remaining suitcases into his sedan and sped down Elm Street without looking back once.
The television in the living room was turned off, permanently.
I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a fresh cup of chamomile tea, and carried it over to the kitchen table.
The bandage on my temple throbbed slightly, but as I sat down in the quiet, warm embrace of my own home—truly my own home, for the first time in a very long time—I didn’t feel any pain at all.
I felt light.
I felt free.
I set my teacup down, pulled a blank notebook from the kitchen drawer, and picked up a pen.
At the top of the first clean page, I wrote a single word in bold, steady letters: Scotland.
Then, beneath it, I began to plan my first journey.
