I dropped the small pocketknife onto her lap. Wren stared at it, not moving an inch. The knife was worn, the engraving on the side practically rubbed off because I’d run my fingers over it so many times. Holt Hartley. Love you forever. Happy 18th Birthday. Love, Cricket. “You kept it.” It wasn’t a question, but it was begging for an explanation. “It’s been everywhere I have. Wouldn’t go on a mission or job without it. It’s kept me safe more times than I can count. Now, it’s going to keep you safe for a little while.”
