Chapter 35Closer to the Devil’s Threshold
Closer to the Devil’s Threshold
Isabella
When we pull out of the city, the sky is a dull shade of blue, the early morning light barely making a dent in the dense clouds. New York fades behind us, replaced by long stretches of empty highway and the occasional roadside diner, all of it swallowed in the quiet hum of the road.
Sawyer drives, one hand on the wheel, the other nursing a gas station coffee that he’s already complained about twice.
Ada’s in the back, stretched out across the seat, her feet propped up on the middle console as she scrolls through her phone.
And me? I’m in the passenger seat, picking apart a peanut butter and pickle sandwich like it holds the answers to life’s mysteries.
“You’re disgusting,” Sawyer says, side-eyeing my food choice as he switches lanes.
I take another bite, meeting his look with a deadpan stare. “And yet, I thrive.”
Ada glances up from her phone, sees what I’m eating, and visibly recoils. “Jesus Christ, Isabella. You couldn’t just eat normal road trip food?”
I shrug, licking a bit of peanut butter off my thumb. “Salty and sweet. It works.”
“It absolutely does not work.” Sawyer’s expression is pure disgust. “And I’m never trusting you with snacks again.”
“You let me pack them.” I grin, holding up a Ziploc bag of more unholy combinations. “That’s on you.”
Sawyer mutters something under his breath about needing better judgment, but he lets it go, turning his focus back to the road.
We settle into silence, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but still carries weight.
It stretches between us, filled only by the sound of the tires against the pavement and the occasional rustling of a snack bag from Ada’s direction.
I watch the road signs blur past, each one marking the distance between us and Maple Hill.
I don’t know what I’m expecting when we get there. Maybe nothing. Maybe too much.
A few hours in, we make a stop at a rundown gas station on the outskirts of some nowhere town. The kind of place that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the ’90s, with flickering fluorescent lights and a convenience store that probably hasn’t changed its stock in years.
“I need more coffee,” Sawyer announces as he pulls up to the pump.
“And I need more snacks that aren’t…” Ada waves vaguely toward me. “Whatever the hell she’s been eating.”
I give her a lazy salute as she hops out, heading toward the store.
Sawyer stays behind, stepping out to start filling the tank. I follow, leaning against the side of the car, watching the gas meter tick up. The air smells like oil and asphalt, and the wind carries the distant sound of a train passing through.
He glances at me. “You look tired.”
“Feel tired.”
“You sleep at all?”
I shrug. “Enough.”
He doesn’t call me out on the lie, but I can see it in his face that he wants to. Instead, he caps the gas tank and stretches, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of something unspoken.
I shift my gaze toward the store, watching Ada browse the aisles through the smudged glass windows. My mind drifts back to the messages from my mom, still sitting unanswered in my phone. Still pressing down on my chest like a weight I don’t know how to lift.
Sawyer follows my gaze. “Something on your mind?”
“Too many things,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend.
Sawyer leans against the car beside me, arms crossed, watching me with the same careful scrutiny he always does, like he’s trying to decide if I’m about to bolt or bite back.
I sigh, tilting my head up toward the sky. The now gray clouds hang low, unmoving. “My mom texted.”
Sawyer’s brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He just nods, like he’s letting me take my time.
“She wants to talk,” I continue. “Says she has something important to tell me.”
Sawyer hums in acknowledgment. “And you don’t know if you want to hear it.”
I huff out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t even know if I care anymore.” I pause, shaking my head. “No, that’s a lie. I do care. I just wish I didn’t.”
His eyes flick toward the store window, where Ada is holding up two bags of chips like she’s debating which one to bring back. He exhales through his nose before turning back to me. “Not caring would be easier, but that’s never been you.”
I scoff. “You say that like you know me so well.”
“I have come to know you quite well, actually,” he says simply, like it’s not even up for debate.
“I know that when you’re pissed, you go quiet instead of yelling.
I know you make jokes when you’re scared.
I know you don’t trust easily, but when you do, you’d burn the whole world down for the people you care about. ”
I swallow hard, gripping the edge of the car door. The weight in my chest shifts, something warm creeping in beneath it.
Sawyer glances at the gas meter before continuing. “And I know what it’s like to have a parent you don’t know what to do with.”
I glance at him. “You do?”
He nods. “Never saw eye to eye. My father wanted things from me I couldn’t give. I spent years of my youth trying to make sense of it, trying to be what he wanted. Eventually, I realized some people will never be who you need them to be, no matter how much you want them to.”
I look down, my fingers tracing invisible patterns against the car’s door. “So, what? You just let it go?”
Sawyer is quiet for a moment before he shakes his head.
“Not exactly. I just stopped letting it own me, but it took me a very long time and changed me too.” He turns his head slightly, watching me.
“You don’t owe her anything, Isabella. But if you think hearing her out will give you peace, even a little bit, then maybe it’s worth it. ”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “And if it just makes things worse?”
He shrugs. “Then at least you’ll know. And you won’t have to keep carrying it.”
His words settle deep, curling around something raw inside me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never had someone to look at me the way Sawyer does now, not with pity, not with judgment, just quiet understanding.
I exhale, nodding once. “I need more time, I’ll think about it.”
He squeezes my shoulder once before stepping away, heading toward the driver’s side. “Good.”
The warmth lingers even as Ada pushes the door open and dramatically tosses two bags of snacks onto the roof of the car. “Alright, idiots, I got us normal food.” She squints at me, then at Sawyer. “What’s with the deep emotional moment I just walked into?”
Sawyer smirks, getting into the car. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
I shake my head, throwing my door open. As we pull back onto the road, something inside me feels lighter. Not gone, not fixed, but maybe… a little less heavy.
The highway stretches endlessly before us, a long ribbon of asphalt cutting through the landscape. At first, the scenery doesn’t change much, just the same dull stretch of road, the occasional semi-truck lumbering past, and the distant outline of city buildings shrinking in the rearview mirror.
But as the miles slip away, New York becomes a memory in the rearview, replaced by winding roads and wide-open spaces.
The buildings grow sparse, traded for thick forests and rolling hills.
The further we drive, the more the world shifts; skyscrapers giving way to small towns, neon signs replaced by old, weathered billboards advertising diners.
Ada’s curled up in the backseat now, half-asleep with her hoodie pulled over her head, occasionally mumbling in protest whenever the car hits a bump in the road.
Sawyer is still at the wheel, his fingers drumming absently against it in time with the soft hum of the radio.
I watch the scenery pass in a blur, the trees taller now, the roads narrower.
The air changes too, crisp and clean in a way that reminds me we’re not in the city anymore.
There’s a stillness here, a quiet that settles over everything like a thick blanket.
It’s the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound; the rustling of the trees, the distant call of birds overhead, the occasional crack of a branch snapping under the weight of something unseen.
We pass through the main strip of Maple Hill, a small town that looks like it could be a postcard from another decade.
The streets are lined with brick buildings, mom-and-pop shops with hand-painted signs, and a diner with a flickering neon ‘Open’ sign that buzzes faintly even from the car.
A few people linger outside a café, sipping coffee, chatting in low voices.
They glance up as we pass, their expressions unreadable.
Sawyer makes a left turn onto a smaller road, the kind that barely has lane markings, and I can feel the tension shift in the car.
“We’re close,” I say, my fingers tightening around the folder in my lap.
No one argues.
The further we go, the more isolated it becomes.
The trees grow thicker, stretching over the road like they’re trying to swallow it whole.
Houses become more spread out, small, weathered, some abandoned entirely.
The pavement eventually gives way to cracked gravel, the sound crunching under the tires as we drive deeper into the unknown.
Sawyer slows as we approach Briarwood Lane. The street is lined with old, forgotten houses, most of them dark, their yards overgrown and fences leaning from years of neglect.
What the hell is this dumpster place?
“There,” Ada says, finally sitting up, her voice sharper now.
487 Briarwood Lane.
The house is set back from the road, hidden behind a rusting chain-link fence. The windows are dark, the front porch sagging with age. The whole place looks abandoned, but I know better than to assume that means no one is inside.
Sawyer pulls the car to a stop a little down the street, killing the engine. The silence is deafening.
For a moment, none of us move.
“I should go in alone,” I say finally, breaking the stillness.
Ada makes a sound of protest from the backseat, and Sawyer’s head snaps toward me immediately, his expression already set in stone. “Absolutely not.”
I exhale, turning to him. “It makes the most sense. If we all go in, it looks like an ambush. We don’t know what we’re walking into, but we do know that Kuznetsov is expecting me.” I gesture toward the house. “Not us. Me.”
Sawyer’s jaw tightens. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, but it’s the best shot we have.” I lean back against the headrest, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I go in. I keep it casual. I find out what I can, and I walk out.”
Ada shakes her head, rubbing at her face. “Or, and hear me out, you go in and never walk out.”
“That’s not the plan.”
Sawyer lets out a slow breath, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel. I can see it—the battle going on behind his eyes. He hates this. But he also knows I’m right.
“We’ll be right outside,” he says after a long pause, his voice low, reluctant. “The second anything feels wrong, you get the hell out.”
I nod, accepting the small victory.
“Give me a second,” I murmur, pulling down the sun visor and flipping open the mirror.
My reflection stares back at me, tired eyes and tension carved into my expression.
I rake my fingers through my hair, fixing loose strands, adjusting the collar of my jacket.
I need to look composed. In control. Like I belong.
As I reach for my lip balm, Sawyer shifts beside me. “Here,” he says, holding something out.
I glance down at the small, flesh-toned earpiece in his palm.
“It’s linked to my cell,” he explains. “We’ll hear everything. and we’ll know when you want us to respond.”
I hesitate for only a second before taking it. “Thanks.”
Sawyer doesn’t say anything as I fit it into my ear. Ada watches in silence as I adjust my hair, making sure the device is hidden beneath the strands.
I take a deep breath, my hand resting on the door handle. The metal is cool beneath my fingers.
“You sure about this?” Sawyer asks, his voice quieter now. Not as the team’s strategist. Just as him.
I glance at him, then at Ada, then back at the house.
“No,” I admit. “But it doesn’t matter.”
And with that, I open the door.