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“I know what Vexley men do when they’re scared.”

Something in me recoils. “No,” I say. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Compare him to Arthur.”

Sadness and regret sweep over Hazel’s wrinkled face. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Yes, you did.”

She closes her mouth.

For a second, all I can hear is the faint hum of the garage lights and my own ragged breathing. We stand there among Vexley cars, two women covered in dirt from the same grave, both of us alive though we probably shouldn’t be.

Hazel looks so tired. Older than she did in the woods.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

“Neither should you.”

“Nathaniel has a place.”

“A safe house,” she says.

My pulse jumps. “You know about it?”

“I don’t know where it is. If that helps.”

It does.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

I look at her. Really look.

Hazel knows things she shouldn’t. She walks through hidden tunnels. She knows which roads have cameras and which paths lead to graves. She carries Arthur’s secrets in her bones. Her dead child carries his DNA.

Can I trust her?

Nathaniel said his gut says she’s okay. But he also said his gut has been wrong before.

And still⁠—

Hazel could have stopped us.

She could have exposed us.

She could have screamed when she saw the chest. She could have gone to Arthur or Cain instead of the woods.

She didn’t.

She helped us bury Audrey.

Which means she’s in danger too.

“Come with me,” I say.

Hazel blinks. “What?”