Legend’s voice cuts through the room, low and lethal.
“Move them now.”
No one argues.
The clubhouse turns into motion around me. Bags lifted. Doors opened. Men checking the yard. Sophie’s hand at my back without pushing. August asking why everyone is quiet. Derby’sface carved out of something dark and furious as he carries my son’s dinosaur bag like it’s a weapon.
I stare at the message until Sophie takes the phone gently from my hand.
“He got the new number,” I whisper.
Whiskey appears from somewhere behind Legend. “Then we find out how.”
“But Wildcat checked it.”
“For trackers and spyware,” Whiskey says. “A number is easier. Could have had it already. Could have got it from someone. Could have guessed you’d turn on the old one eventually.”
That makes it worse somehow.
A tracker is a thing.
A bad program is a thing.
But this feels like Jeremy himself, slipping through cracks I didn’t know were there.
Derby looks at me. “Amelia.”
I look up.
His voice is rough, but steady. “We’re going to my house.”
I nod.
Not because I’m not scared.
Because I am.
Because Jeremy has reached through another locked door without touching the handle.
Because my son is watching me.
Because Derby is standing there with a jaw full of violence and a bag full of dinosaurs, and for today, that is the best bad idea we have.
“Okay,” I say.
Derby’s eyes hold mine.
Then he turns toward the door.
August slips his hand into mine, juice box in the other, Blue Rex tucked under his arm.
We walk out of the old jail clubhouse into the gray Kentucky morning.
Not free.
Not safe.
Not yet.