I was halfway through a lousy beer and an even worse crime-show rerun when someone started hammering on my door. Not a polite knock. Not a neighbor needing sugar. This was panic—fast, uneven, desperate. At 2 a.m., that kind of knocking is never good news. I slid on my hoodie, covering the holster I’d left on the counter, and stepped toward the door. Before I reached it, I heard the voice. “Maddie—please! Open up!” Savannah. My sister. The one I hadn’t seen in months. The one Mom insisted was “too dramatic to deal with.”….CONTINUE READING BELOW
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