The Paranoia Pact

The air inside the little farmhouse hung thick, a humid blend of stale smoke, the sharp, nostalgic tang of curing weed, and the faint, metallic undercurrent that always lingered when Odie had been particularly busy. Rene, perched on the edge of the dilapidated sofa, her dreadlocks braided haphazardly with turquoise string, traced the pattern of a moth-eaten throw pillow. Beside her, Dion sat ramrod straight in his armchair—the only one he considered acceptably upholstered—his eyes darting toward the frosted glass panel of the front door every thirty seconds.

“They’re watching, baby,” Dion murmured, his voice tight, pulling at the cuff of his perfectly pressed, though slightly stained, polo shirt. “They are *definitely* watching.”

Rene nodded slowly, the motion causing a loose lock to brush against the edge of her tattooed shoulder. “The mailman looked twice today, D. He slowed down, you saw it? Like he was cataloging the cracks in the driveway.”