Mara Whitlock came in wearing a blue raincoat with one sleeve torn at the cuff.
She held a cardboard file box against her chest and kept one thumb hooked under the lid. Rain still dotted her gray hair. Her shoes squeaked once on the shelter floor, and she stopped like the sound had given her away.
Jade stayed by the table.
People who had carried a secret for decades looked for doors before faces. Mara counted the stairwell, the kitchen arch, the rear hall, the broken window covered with plywood.
Mina Cross entered behind her with the rifle lowered but ready.
"Street is clear behind us, and quiet near Mercy lies too easily."
Waddell read Mina's mouth, checked the security feeds, and wrote on his pad for Jade. Outside looked clean enough to breathe and too easy to distrust.
Mara saw the tablet on the table.
The freezer feed had not closed. It still showed her name, her old night records title, and one ugly little word beside her status.
Living.
