The flickering light of the single bulb overhead did little to soften the raw, concrete edges of the tarmac garage. Outside, the Outer Banks was bracing for another summer storm—the wind howling through the marsh, rain drumming aggressively against the tin roof. But inside, the storm was entirely under Rafe Cameron’s control. Rafe stood beneath the light, his fingers mindfully tracing the edge of a heavy leather cuff resting on the workbench. The chaotic, manic energy that usually consumed him around his father or the Pogues was entirely gone. Here, in this hidden space, his mind was terrifyingly, beautifully quiet.