17 Rue des Ombres stood in a peaceful neighborhood, where streetlights cast soft glows on tidy lawns and sleeping houses. The duplex was modern but simple, with clean white walls, large windows reflecting the moonlight, and a low hedge framing a small front yard. A black sedan sat in the driveway. The front door was slightly ajar, a thin strip of warm light spilling onto the porch, beckoning like an invitation or a trap. Devon's brows knitted, He checked the pistol's clip half full then stepped inside, his boots silent on the polished hardwood floor.
The house felt lived-in, warm, not the cold hideout he'd expected. The living room had a plush beige sofa, a coffee table cluttered with a stack of magazines, a half-empty wine glass, and a small vase of fresh lilies, their scent faint but sweet. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall, turned off, reflecting the dim glow of a floor lamp.
