Tom covered the last of the evidence that they'd been there, burying ashes, tossing the extra, piled firewood back into the woods. There was no way to hide all the evidence, but then, there never was.

And there was no telling who was looking for them now. It had rarely been so simple as fighting against just one front.

He slid into the front seat, startled for a moment at the flood of sense memory - the old upholstery, gasoline, ammo, and the faint smell of Dexter, who was currently sharing his normal seat with Neil. With a sigh, he opened the glove box, digging a battered compass from underneath a few handguns and crumpled pieces of paper, half written letters to Sophie. He snorted quietly. Right.

"Okay," he said, looking down as the needle aligned itself in his palm. "I guess we're heading west."