Outside the small terminal, the sky was a solid sheet of gray—low, heavy, and pregnant with rain.

You spotted him before he saw you.

The drive to Forks was quiet.

The road cut through endless walls of towering evergreens, their branches dripping with moisture. The world outside was green and wet and so terribly still.

The house on Circle Drive looked exactly like the photos he'd sent: small, tidy, with a porch that sagged just slightly in the middle.