Marco
I step outside the bank and make three calls.
Two confirm my suspicion.
The third makes it worse.
“They just bought the note on Miller’s,” the voice on the phone says.
“Through a secondary.”
“And the others?” I ask.
“Options,” he replies. “Quiet ones.”
I look down Main Street.
At the burned skeleton of the hardware store.
At the café across the street.
At the bakery where the windows are still fogged from fresh bread.
At the small town that believes the danger has passed.
“She’s not coming for people,” I murmur.
“She’s coming for ownership.”
I pull out my phone and call Saint.
He answers immediately.
“She’s here,” I say.
A pause.
“I know,” he replies quietly.
“I can feel it.”
“She just hasn’t shown her face yet.”