The Ashveil safe house was not a house.
It was two rooms above a feed storage building on the edge of a working farm that Rhea had been cultivating as a contact point for three years. The farmer's name was Dav.
He was sixty years old and did not ask questions and charged a fair rate for the rooms and the use of the kitchen twice a day, and he had seen enough people pass through his property over the years that two adults and two children and a very composed older woman did not register as anything exceptional.
They had been there eleven days.
