The back patio of the safe house was quiet, bordered by a dense, towering wall of pine trees that swallowed the sounds of the nearby highway.
Elias sat on a weathered Adirondack chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was meticulously, expertly rolling a joint. He licked the edge of the paper, sealing it with the kind of steady hands that made him one of the top trauma surgeons on the East Coast.
On the glass patio table, a phone began to vibrate.
The screen lit up in the dimming evening light.
Caller ID: Mrs. Sinclair
Elias paused. He stared at the glowing name on the screen. His exhausted face remained unreadable, giving nothing away. He sat there, watching the phone vibrate against the glass until the call finally rang out and the screen went black.
A few seconds later, the sliding glass door opened.
Damien stepped out onto the patio, rolling his sleeves down. He picked his phone up off the table and slid it into his pocket.
