Page 137 of Crown of Lies

“But won’t we just be trading one dangerous situation for another? I mean, no offense, but we’ve heard about the threats against you.”

Quinn doesn’t flinch at the question. Instead, she meets the kid’s gaze head-on.

“You’re right,” she admits. “I can’t promise that everything will be smooth sailing. We’ve got our own challenges to face. But what I can promise is that we’ll have your backs. You won’t be alone in this.”

Her words seem to resonate with the group. I see nods of agreement, shoulders relaxing slightly.

“We may not have all the answers right now,” Quinn continues. “But we’re committed to protecting our own. And that includes anyone who chooses to stand with us.”

I step forward, placing my hand on Quinn’s shoulder. She turns to me, a silent conversation passing between us. I give her a slight nod, encouraging her to continue.

“The choice is yours,” she says, turning back to the group. “But know that if you decide to join us, we’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe.”

I squeeze her hand, a moment passing between us. The strength and leadership she’s showing… it’s incredible. In this moment, I’m not just proud of her—I’m in awe.

40

QUINN

I flipthrough another one of my dad’s old sketchbooks, my eyes scanning each page for anything resembling the symbol we’re searching for. The house is quiet, except for the occasional rustle of paper and my frustrated sighs.

It’s been days of this. Days of poring over my father’s sketchbooks and artwork, postcards and notebooks—hoping to find some clue, some hint of the marker that’s put a target on my back. The tension that always seems to be in the air these days has only gotten worse, settling into my bones like a constant ache.

I rub my eyes, feeling the strain of hours spent scrutinizing intricate drawings. The coffee beside me has long gone cold, forgotten in my desperate search.

“Come on, Dad,” I mutter, turning another page. “Give me something.”

But it’s just more of the same—beautiful sketches, sure, but nothing that looks like our elusive symbol. I’ve gone through so much of his shit now that it’s all just a blur.

I grab another book, this one older than the rest. The pages are yellowed, the binding cracked. As I flip through it, a thoughtstrikes me. What if the symbol isn’t in one sketch, but pieced together from several?

With renewed energy, I start laying out pages side by side, trying to match up lines and shapes. I move sketches around, flipping them, rotating them, desperate to see some semblance of the marker we’re looking for.

But it’s not working. No matter how I arrange the sketches, they don’t form anything close to what we need. The hope that had flared up moments ago fizzles out, leaving me feeling more drained than ever.

I toss the sketchbook aside, frustration boiling over. “Dammit!” I slam my fist on the table, sending papers scattering.

This isn’t just about finding a symbol anymore. It’s about survival. Ever since Zoey’s betrayal, everything’s gone to shit. The fragile alliance we’d built, the safety net it provided—gone in an instant.

The walls feel like they’re closing in. Our territory, once somewhat secure, could turn into a war zone at any minute. It’s like we’re back to square one, with enemies on all sides.

My mind races, trying to piece together a plan. But how do you fight a war on multiple fronts when you’re not even sure who some of your enemies are?

I grab my phone, scrolling through my contacts. Who can I trust? Who’s left that isn’t gunning for us?

The list is depressingly short.

A noise outside makes me jump. I rush to the window, peering out through the blinds. It’s just a stray cat, but my heart is pounding like it’s a hit squad.

This is what it’s come to. Jumping at shadows, seeing threats in every corner. It’s Silas all over again, but worse. At least then, we figured out who the enemy was.

Now? Now it could be anyone.

I sink into a chair. How did we end up here? One minute we’re on top, the next we’re scrambling just to stay alive.

My eyes drift back to my father’s sketches strewn across the floor. There has to be something there, some key we’re missing. But even if we find it, will it be enough? Can one symbol, one piece of information, really turn the tide against the shitstorm we’re facing?

I pick up a sketch, staring at it without really seeing it. We need more than just a symbol. We need allies, resources, a fucking miracle.

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