It took us an hour to get to the closest airport, a tiny little strip of a thing that didn’t fly commercial. I’d been willing to commandeer a plane by force if necessary, but there was no need: pilot, plane, and a small white envelope bearing my name were waiting for us when we got there—courtesy of Callum.
He’d known we’d come here, and he’d known where we’d be headed—and why. Any doubt I might have clung to that he hadn’t foreseen Ink’s death—hadn’t already apologized for it—evaporated.
There wasn’t an apology in the world—before, during, or after—that could make this right. A plane and a pilot and the Stone River alpha’s reassurance—via note card—that he would be glad to send Macbeth’s father to stay at the Pine Ridge Pack lands in his son’s stead did nothing to change what had happen
