# Chapter 1

By the time they’d been at Bishop’s for two weeks, the weather had begun to turn.

Fall came slowly to this part of Mississippi. The pines stayed green, standing thick across the land that gave the Pine Belt its name, but the trees between them were beginning to let go. Leaves gathered along the edges of the yard and caught beneath the porch steps. In the mornings, a chill lingered in the shade long after the sun had reached the house.

Chuck noticed it most when he stepped outside before breakfast. After everything that had happened in Meridian, there was something strange about waking up in the same place day after day. No hurried departure. No waiting for someone to tell him they had to move.

For now, they were staying put.

Knowing they weren’t ready didn’t make the waiting any easier. Every morning, Chuck wondered where his mother was, whether she was alone, and what they were doing to her. He kept busy as best he could, but whenever he stopped, his thoughts went right back to her.

Bishop was usually awake before the rest of them. Some mornings Chuck found him on the porch, watching the light work its way through the pines. Other mornings he was already inside with Daniel, discussing what needed doing before anyone else had finished their coffee.

His hair was clipped close, thinning across the top, and rectangular glasses framed a face that warmed considerably when he smiled. He had broad shoulders and thick forearms, a substantial build that made the effort of getting out of a chair seem wrong somehow. At first glance, Chuck would have expected him to be the one helping someone else stand.

He carried himself with quiet assurance. His shoulders stayed square, his gaze steady. When someone spoke, he gave them his attention, and when he answered, he expected them to do the same. There was humor in him, too. A dry remark delivered over the rim of his coffee cup could catch Chuck off guard.

Getting to his feet was another matter.

His hands went to the arms of the chair. He shifted his feet beneath him, leaned forward, and pushed. Sometimes he made it in one motion. Sometimes he settled back and waited before trying again.

Chuck had learned to keep talking through those moments. Bishop seemed to prefer that.

Once upright, he took a breath before moving. He wanted to walk the grounds with Daniel, watch Mara train, and do more than hear about everyone’s progress afterward. On better mornings, he joined them for a while. On others, Chuck saw him standing at the porch rail, weighing the distance across the yard.

Those were the mornings Bishop stayed close to the house.

His body was failing him, and there were days when crossing the yard cost him more than he could hide. But he still asked what they’d done, what had gone wrong, and what needed work. Sometimes he started giving instructions before they’d finished answering.

Nobody offered to help unless he asked.

They were still learning when to make an exception.

Silas had disappeared soon after they arrived.

He’d stayed long enough to know Chuck was safe and that Bishop could look after him. Then he’d gone to feed and heal, offering little explanation beyond that.

Chuck had seen how quickly Silas could recover from a gunshot. If he fed, he could heal instantly. Without feeding, his body needed time, and those disappearing acts slowed his recovery drastically when he used them too often.

A week later, he came back for Mara.

Her new toy, as she’d taken to calling it, apparently required more instruction than she’d expected.

Silas wasted little time getting started. Since then, her training had become part of the rhythm of the place. She went out with him and came back tired, sometimes irritated, and increasingly reluctant to explain which of those feelings he’d caused.

Jake spent most of his time with the material they’d brought out of Meridian.

The symbols and notes had spread across a table until there was barely room for anything else. He copied markings onto fresh sheets, compared them, crossed out ideas, and occasionally returned to something he’d dismissed the day before. Daniel checked on him. Chuck brought him food. Bishop asked questions that sometimes sent him back through the whole pile.

For several days, Jake had little to show them.

Then, one afternoon, Chuck walked in and found him standing over the table.

Daniel was beside him. Bishop sat at the end, his hands resting near a sheet of paper covered in Jake’s handwriting.

“Get the others,” Jake said.

Chuck stopped in the doorway. “You found something?”

“I think so.”

There was enough in his voice to send Chuck back outside.

When they were all gathered, Jake waited until Mara had pulled up a chair before turning the first page toward them.

“I’ve narrowed it down.”

Nobody asked what he meant.

“There are three places I’m fairly sure about,” he continued. “Two more I haven’t been able to rule out.”

“Where they might have taken your mother?” Daniel asked.

Jake nodded.

Chuck leaned closer. After days of staring at the same symbols, it was hard to believe they had finally given them anything useful.

“What makes these different?” Bishop asked.

Jake showed them the markings he’d matched and the notes that went with them. He took his time explaining, stopping when Daniel asked a question and correcting himself once when he reached a conclusion he couldn’t yet support.

Three strong possibilities. Two uncertain ones.

It was still too many, but they could begin with that.

“There’s something else,” Jake said.

He pulled a separate sheet from beneath the others.

Mara looked from the paper to his face. “Something good?”

“Possibly.”

Bishop held out his hand, and Jake passed it to him.

“I think this points to an armory.”

Daniel straightened. “You think, or you know?”

“I know enough to want to check it.”

Bishop studied the page. “What makes you think there’s anything left in it?”

Jake hesitated.

“Because I haven’t found anything that says it was ever opened.”

For a moment, the room was quiet.

Chuck looked at the papers again. Somewhere among those places might be the woman they were trying to bring home. And somewhere else there might be an armory that had sat untouched, waiting for someone to understand the markings they’d carried out of Meridian.

Bishop lowered the page to the table.

“All right,” he said. “Show us how you got there.”