ZELLMAN
When you get a text from Bren with coordinates, you don’t question it. You show up.
I learned that lesson long ago, maybe in seventh grade. Bren was a chick who didn’t waste words. She didn’t need attention. She didn’t do anything that was extra. She was not a normal chick, and I knew, I’ve always known that I’d never meet someone like her. Ever.
So here I was.
Pulling up by her truck, her coordinates farther up, and I was sloshing my way through these woods.
That’s another thing about Bren. Trees. She liked ’em. Trees were her thing. That and spying on people. She and Cross didn’t think we knew, but we did. We knew about her ‘spot’ back in Roussou. Doesn’t take a fricking genius. It was overlooking her old house, and Bren was haunted by that. Like, literally. Ghost of her mom
