“Then we won’t let them get there first,” Roman said.

His voice was calm, but I could see the tension in his face.

He was still recovering from the shooting, and every bump in the road made his shoulders tense.

“You are in pain,” I said, watching him.

“I am fine,” he said, not looking at me.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Roman,” I said.

“I am not lying,” he said. “I am focusing.”

We drove in silence for the next twenty minutes.

The highway gave way to quieter, tree-lined streets where the houses were larger and farther apart.

The wind hissed through the bare branches of the oak trees along the road.

We turned onto the gravel driveway of my family’s old home.

The house was a large, grey stone Tudor, sitting dark and empty against the black sky.

The windows were completely lifeless, reflecting only the dim light of the streetlamps.

Roman turned off the SUV’s headlights a block away, letting the vehicle coast quietly.

He parked behind a dense hedge of boxwoods near the side gate.