Cane's POV
The light from the porch lamp felt like a prison spotlight. It pinned me to the dirt at the edge of the clearing. My arm burned where the bullet had grazed it. The gun in my hand felt suddenly useless. Armstrong stood just outside the circle of light, a shadow with a voice.
"There he is," Armstrong said, almost kindly. "The ghost himself. You look tired, Cane. Should I say tired, or sick, or weak. Which is it?"
I didn't speak. My eyes darted, not to him, but to the dark windows of the cabin. Mabel. My son. Where was his remaining man? The one with the rifle trained on them?
"Drop the gun," Armstrong said. "Kick it away. Or the old woman dies before you hear the shot."
My fingers tightened on the grip. Dropping it felt like cutting my own throat. But I saw a slight movement in the cabin's main window. The smallest shift of the board. Someone was watching.
Trust them. Steph's voice, in my head.
