About three and a half hours following the texts, Thomas’s Bentley rolled up to
what turned out to be an almost painfully stereotypical house in the suburbs, complete with–well, it wasn’t a white picket fence, but it was a fence. Close enough.
Nobody was outside, but there were cars parked outside and the place was clearly occupied. Thomas climbed out of his car, clad in a white button-up shirt beneath an expensive white coat and a pair of fitted dark jeans. He locked the car behind himself, casting a suspicious look around the too perfect neighborhood, then strolled up to the front door, whistling to himself.
He could smell food. Really, he could smell food all over the neighborhood, but that was probably because it was the day after Thanksgiving and all of the families had probably made tons of it. He texted Mia as he approached the door to let her know he’d arrived, just in case she didn’t hear it as he reached up and rang the doorbell.