“Callan,” she said carefully. “People don’tliveon tiny islands off the coast of Maine.”
“My brother does.”
She stared at me.
“Why?”
I sighed.
“Because he’s a paranoid motherfucker.”
That seemed to track slightly better for her.
“He’s an ex-Navy SEAL,” I continued. “Did a bunch of overseas deployments, came back… different.”
Sloane crossed her arms.
“Different how?”
“Prepper different.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Like a bunker-in-the-mountains prepper?”
I snorted.
“Way worse.”
I tapped the map again.
“Years ago, he somehow bought that island through some weird tax auction lottery; the previous owner defaulted on a pile of property taxes, and the state dumped it.”
“And your brother bought it.”
“Yep.”
She leaned in again, studying the map as if the island might grow bigger if she stared long enough.
“What did he do with it?”
I laughed quietly.
“More like whatdidn’the do with it?”
“Callan.”
“He built a compound,” I said simply.
Her eyes widened.
“Of course he did.”
“Solar panels. Wind turbines, rainwater catchment systems, underground storage. Greenhouses.”
She blinked slowly.
“Wait.”