26

KANE The drive to my parents’ house is quick and nearly mindless. I push my Porsche 911 Turbo S to its limits up the Hill, but I have full control over the vehicle. Which can’t be said about the rest of the fucking night. My fingers tap against the steering wheel as the house looms like a shadow at the top of Ravenswood Hill—an isolated fortress hidden deep within the trees. The long, winding driveway is flanked by towering oaks, their branches stretching overhead like skeletal fingers. The car’s tires crunch against the gravel as I approach my old asylum, the sound muted under the oppressive weight of the night. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, mingled with a faint metallic tang that always lingers in the forest. I kill the engine and step out of the car. Cold bites into my skin, the crisp night air sharp against my face. My breath forms clouds in front of me as I walk toward the house, the soft thud of my shoes on the stone path the only sound breaking the sile