RVS Footwear Bad-As

RVS Footwear Bad-As Contact information, map and directions, contact form, opening hours, services, ratings, photos, videos and announcements from RVS Footwear Bad-As, National Highway Bad-As, Placer Surigao del Norte (Beside Minute Burger ), Surigao City.

22/07/2026

Legend Lost: The First Queen of Country Music Has Died Details in Comments👇

21/07/2026

On Father's Day, I was eating lunch alone, waiting for my son to call, when my bank flagged a $35,000 charge on my corporate card. Connor had bought a Chrysler for his father-in-law without saying a word to me. When I called him, he simply snapped: > "You have more than enough money, don’t be selfish."
What he didn't know yet was that those words would lead me to a folder, a closed room, and a truth I could no longer ignore.
At 1:47 PM on Father's Day, sitting alone in my kitchen and staring at a silent phone, I got an alert from my bank: a $35,000 charge to my business account.
It wasn't random fraud. It was my own son.
My name is Arthur Sterling, I’m 62 years old, and I’ve spent four decades building a manufacturing business in Boston. I wasn't expecting lavish gifts that Sunday. No grand gestures. Just a quick phone call from Connor, even if it was brief. But instead of his voice, I saw the card number ending in 8942 and a local dealership's name pop up on my screen.
I contacted the bank. They verified the transaction: a brand-new Chrysler 300. It was registered under the name David Lawson.
My daughter-in-law's father.
I still remember the cold chill traveling down my spine. Not because of the cash, but because of the meaning behind it. My son had used company money, on Father's Day, to buy his father-in-law a vehicle... while I sat alone eating lunch, waiting for him to simply remember me.
I called him right away. I could hear laughter in the background—chatter, silverware clinking, the sounds of someone else's family celebrating.
"Connor, I need an explanation for this."
A brief silence followed. And then, he dropped it.
"I got David a car. You have more than enough money, don't be selfish."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't offer excuses. He didn't even hesitate. He stated it like it was an undeniable fact. Honestly, the $35,000 wasn't what stung the most in that second. It was the sudden realization of exactly where I ranked in his life.
I locked myself in my home office that afternoon. I pulled the blinds down, shut off my cell phone, and started digging through statements I had blindly signed for months, purely out of trust.
A high-end steakhouse in February.
A designer boutique in March.
A jeweler in April.
A luxury resort in May.
A $7,900 remodeling invoice for office spaces that were never actually touched.
I grabbed a red pen and started drawing lines. Every single page was worse than the one before it.
By the time the sun came up, I realized this wasn't an impulsive mistake. It was a calculated pattern. A slow, methodical drain. Hidden expenses, ambiguous descriptions, and charges that looked legitimate on paper but felt completely wrong. By daybreak, the total wasn't $35,000 anymore.
It was $87,000.
Eighty-seven thousand dollars siphoned from my business over two years. And the money wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that the deeper I looked, the more obvious a truth became—one I had been willfully blind to: Connor hadn't done this on a whim. He had figured out exactly how much he could get away with while I wasn't paying attention.
Bright and early Monday morning, I froze the card. I initiated a comprehensive audit. I contacted my bank, my attorney, and a private investigator who made a living exposing things people tried to bury.
I didn't cause a scene. I made no threats. I stopped arguing with my son entirely. I just wanted a paper trail. Dates. Names. I needed concrete evidence he couldn't dodge with a smirk or a lie.
And the proof poured in:
Invoices and text records.
The Lawson family home getting renovations.
High-end watches registered.
Vacations that had nothing to do with client meetings.
The car suddenly felt less like a splurge and more like the visible tip of a very dark iceberg.
Then, I called Connor into the office for a meeting. I also invited Megan, his wife. And Eleanor, my ex-wife. I needed everyone present in the same room when the suspicions finally morphed into undeniable facts.
They walked in assuming we were going to argue over a car. I was already sitting at the conference table with three thick folders waiting for them.
I will never forget the details of that morning. Connor’s tailored navy suit. Megan’s pastel sundress. The way Eleanor stared at me when she noticed the corporate lawyer seated to my right. The heavy, suffocating silence that filled the room before anyone even dared to take a breath.
First, I slid the bank statements across the mahogany table.
I watched the color completely drain from my son's face.
Then, I pulled out the receipts.

21/07/2026

With a heavy heart, we must share some sad news about Vanna White... See more

21/07/2026

My mom sent me a text: “Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.” I didn’t even try to fight it. I just turned the car around and brought my baby right back home. Two weeks later, after they found out through the grapevine that we’d spent Thanksgiving at a private ski lodge with friends who had literally flown us out there, my mom sent her first message. “Why didn’t you tell us you were going there?” I was seeing red when I finally answered.
My mom’s text came through while my daughter was fast asleep in her car seat in the back.
Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.
No emojis. No “I'm sorry.” No sugarcoating to cushion the blow. Just those harsh words glaring at me from my screen like they’d been branded there with a cold steel iron.
Sophie was barely three months old. Tiny, warm, and absolutely flawless the way newborns are—like they haven’t quite figured out yet that love is something people measure and ration out. She let out a soft little coo in her sleep, her lips forming a perfect 'O', and something inside my chest tightened so hard it physically ached.
We were already halfway to my parents’ place in Detroit. I had just driven four hours straight from Chicago with an infant because family actually meant something to me.
Or, at least, I thought it did.
My hands literally shaking, I pulled off at the next interstate rest stop and parked the car under a dead, leafless winter tree. Semi-trucks roared past on the highway like massive beasts that couldn't care less about my life falling apart. The Midwest sky looked like dirty, gray cotton.
I read the text one more time.
We need a break from your kid.
Not “we’re feeling a bit overwhelmed.” Not “we’re so sorry.” Not “could you maybe just stay for the afternoon?” Not even “from the baby.”
From your kid.
Like Sophie was some toxic habit I couldn't kick. Like she was just obnoxious background noise my mother wanted to put on mute. Like being a single mom made me—and my beautiful daughter—some kind of burden my family merely tolerated instead of genuinely loved.
I stared at the glare of my phone screen until the letters started to blur together.
And then, I did something I almost never do.
I didn’t pick a fight.
I didn’t call her, crying my eyes out.
I didn’t draft a massive paragraph explaining how deeply that stung, how completely uncalled for it was, or how I had driven hours on the highway because I still believed in this family.
I replied with a short text.
Got it. Hope you have a good one.
Then I threw the car in drive, hit the highway on-ramp, and drove the four hours right back to Chicago.
The ride back was dead silent, save for Sophie’s occasional baby noises and the relentless pounding of my own thoughts, which were way louder than the road noise.
I just kept replaying every single time I had put them first and left myself dead last.
Every generous birthday check.
Every frantic Venmo for a so-called "emergency."
Every time I flipped my own schedule upside down like my whole purpose in life was to be their safety net.
Because here’s the thing you need to know about me.
I’m Chloe. I'm twenty-seven. And I have spent my entire adult life bending over backward for these people.
When my brother Tyler needed seed money for a tech startup that literally never got off the ground, I fronted him three grand. When my sister Madison was stressing out over her wedding budget, I quietly picked up the tab for the florist and the photographer. When my parents’ roof started leaking after a bad storm last spring, guess who quietly wired them five thousand dollars without complaining to coworkers, without blasting it on Facebook, and without expecting a standing ovation?
Me.
The reliable one. The problem solver. The perfect daughter.
And apparently, showing up to a family get-together with my own flesh-and-blood baby was the line in the sand where they decided they'd had enough of me.
By the time I finally pulled into my apartment complex in Chicago, Harper—my best friend since college—was calling.
“You holding up okay?” she asked, using that soft, careful tone nurses use when they already know the diagnosis is bad.
That was the exact moment I finally broke down.
Not loud, dramatic sobbing. Just the heavy, exhausted tears that come when a brutal truth finally hits you. I unloaded everything on her—the text message, the U-turn on the interstate, the terrifyingly numb feeling in my fingers gripping the steering wheel.
“Chloe, they’re treating you like a second-class citizen just because you’re a single mom,” Harper said softly over the phone. “You realize that, right?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know.”
Ever since Sophie’s dad, Ethan, got cold feet about fatherhood and bailed on us before she was even born, my family had put me on ice. They acted like I had committed some deeply shameful crime instead of bringing a gorgeous, innocent baby into the world.
My mom had actually looked at me once and said, “Well, you made your bed with this whole situation,” like deciding to keep my child was some kind of prison sentence I deserved.
Later that night, I stood over Sophie’s bassinet in the dark and just watched her sleep—her tiny fists balled up, her long eyelashes resting against her chubby cheeks—and I made a hard call.
I was completely done.
Done killing myself trying to buy my way into their good graces. Done bankrolling their crises while they treated my life like a joke. Done begging for scraps at their table. Done feeling like I had to apologize for being a single mom, as if a kid's worth requires a two-parent signature on a birth certificate.
My mother’s birthday rolled around.
No Amazon package. No Hallmark card. No FaceTime call.
For the very first time in my twenty-seven years, I went completely ghost.
My phone stayed dead quiet, too.
Not a single person texted to ask why I no-showed. Nobody checked in to see if I was in a ditch somewhere. Nobody bothered to ask about Sophie.
That deafening silence told me everything I ever needed to know.
And honestly? It was absolutely terrifying, but it was also the most freeing feeling in the world.
I spent that Saturday afternoon at the neighborhood park with Sophie, just the two of us bundled up against the Chicago winter chill. I watched her stare up at the bare tree branches like they were the most magical thing on earth. I didn't feel a single ounce of guilt.
Not even a drop.
Two weeks later, Thanksgiving week rolled in.
And that was the exact moment the game permanently changed.
Because while my family just naturally assumed I’d spend the holiday sitting in my apartment all by myself—quietly serving my punishment, waiting by the phone for them to finally accept me again—I was about to step into a completely different world where my baby was actually wanted.
Not just tolerated.
Celebrated.

21/07/2026

My stepmother raised me as her own daughter from the time my dad died when I was six. I called her "Mom" for fourteen years, hugged her at my graduations, and bared my teeth at anyone who dared say she wasn't blood. But at twenty, I climbed into the stifling darkness of our attic looking for old photos. I came down holding a letter my dad wrote the night before he died. The very first line made me drop the photograph, tremble from head to toe… and stop calling her Mom for a second.
My biological mother bled to death giving birth to me.
That was the absolute only thing I had ever known.
There were no framed photos in the living room. No nostalgic stories. No headstone we visited every year with fresh flowers. Only a hollow phrase my dad repeated whenever I begged for details:
“Your mother loved you so much she gave you her whole life.”
I was too young to grasp the finality of death. But I understood love. And my dad, Arthur Sterling, loved me fiercely, as if I were the last tether keeping him on this earth.
We lived in a cramped house in a Boston suburb, complete with terra-cotta pots by the porch, faded yellow curtains, and a coffee maker that always smelled of the bitter early morning.
My dad was an accountant. He wore impeccably ironed shirts, wire-rimmed glasses, and brewed the darkest coffee in all of Massachusetts. I would sit at the counter with my feet dangling while he aggressively tried to style my hair for kindergarten. He always left one side higher than the other.
“Sorry, sweetie,” he’d sigh, focusing intensely on the hair tie. “Your dad knows how to handle tax returns, not braids.”
I would laugh. He would too. Then he’d kiss my forehead and say:
“You are my whole world, Harper.”
And I believed him. Because when a girl has a father who looks at her like that, she doesn't need any more proof of love.
For four years, it was just the two of us against the world.
Until Eleanor arrived.
I met her on a torrential Tuesday afternoon at a local bakery. I was eyeing a pink frosted pastry when my dad pulled the door open for a woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun, a paper bag in her hand, and a smile so fragile it seemed to be begging for permission to exist.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
My dad completely lost his composure. That caught my attention. Arthur Sterling could stare down furious clients, ruthless lawyers, and debt collectors without blinking. But this woman made him stammer over a tray of croissants.
Her name was Eleanor. She worked at a private academy. She smelled of lilies and cinnamon, and she spoke to me in a way that didn't make me want to hide.
She didn't try to mother me right away. She didn't ask me to call her anything. She didn't touch my biological mother’s invisible ghosts. She didn't intrude.
She just seeped in. Slowly.
First with bedtime stories. Then with Jell-O cups. Then with hair ribbons that actually ended up perfectly even.
My dad began to laugh differently—a deep, booming sound, as if he were almost guilty for being so happy. They married six months later. I wore a white dress with embroidered flowers and fell asleep before the cake was cut.
Eleanor never tried to replace my mother. Or so I blindly believed.
She taught me how to tie my shoes. She bandaged my scraped knees. She made me tea when my stomach churned. She defended me fiercely in kindergarten when a PTA mom snickered that “stepmothers never love you the same.”
Eleanor didn't cry in front of that woman. She simply stared her down and fired back:
“Then you haven’t met one who knows how to love.”
Shortly before I turned five, she legally adopted me. I didn't quite understand the gravity of it. I just remember my dad signing papers with shining eyes and Eleanor dropping to her knees in front of me to ask:
“Would you like for me to take care of you forever, too?”
I nodded. And one day, without anyone forcing me, I started calling her Mom.
She froze the first time. Then she hugged me so hard she messed up my hair.
“Thank you, my sweet girl,” she whispered.
I loved her. Truly. That’s why what I found hurt more than any betrayal.
At age six, my entire world shattered.
I was piecing together a puzzle on my rug when Eleanor walked in. Her face was the color of ash. She wasn't crying, which terrified me more than screams would have.
She dropped to the floor, gripped my hands, and choked out:
“My sweet girl… your dad isn’t coming home anymore.”
I didn't understand. Children don't process death all at once. They understand it in agonizing shards. In the permanently empty chair. In the toothbrush no one touches. In the shirt that holds a scent until one day, it just vanishes. In the adults who abruptly lower their voices when you enter a room.
They said it was a car crash on the way to Providence. Blinding rain. A swerving semi-truck. Squealing brakes. Instant death.
That’s the story I was fed. And I swallowed it whole.
At the funeral, Eleanor clung to me like a life raft. She didn't let go, not even for a sip of water. When my paternal grandmother tried to pry me away, Eleanor’s grip turned to iron.
“Arthur wanted her to stay with me,” she hissed.
My grandmother glared at her with a venomous rage I couldn't comprehend at the time.
“That remains to be seen.”
But it was never seen. There was no trial. There was no custody battle. There were no screams. Just a suffocating silence that swallowed my father's family whole and never left.
Over the years, my paternal grandparents completely vanished from my life. Or so I was told.
“It hurts them to look at you,” Eleanor explained, wiping my tears. “You remind them too much of your dad.”
I would sob. She would hold my face.
“But I am here.”
And she was. Flawlessly. Eleanor was at my school plays. Through my fevers. At my birthdays. The first time my heart was broken. During my crippling panic attacks before finals.
Years later, she remarried. Marcus was a quiet man, the kind who speaks little and fixes broken things without bragging. He never tried to play the role of my father. I respected that. He treated me carefully, like someone who knows there are already ghosts sitting at the dinner table.
Then Leo and Noah were born. My half-brothers. But they never made me feel like an outsider. Eleanor refused to let anyone do so.
“Harper is my daughter,” she would snap at anyone who dared use the prefix ‘step’. “Not someone else’s daughter. My daughter.”
Every time a neighbor whispered “stepmother” with venom, she would respond:
“I am her mother. Everything else is just paperwork.”
I believed her. I believed her so entirely that the eventual doubt felt like a knife twisting in my gut.
I was twenty when a dark obsession with my father took root.
I don't know why. Maybe because my college graduation was looming. Maybe my birthday was triggering it. Maybe because at that age, you start desperately wondering what you’re made of and who you inherited your broken parts from.
I looked in the mirror, hunting for his face in mine. The sharp slope of my eyes. The forehead. The way I violently bit the inside of my lip when something terrified me.
I wanted photos. More photos. Not the same sanitized three Eleanor kept perfectly framed on the mantel. I wanted to see him young. Reckless. Angry. Disheveled. Alive.
“Mom, where are my dad’s old boxes?” I asked her one evening.
Eleanor was violently chopping onions for a stew. The chef's knife halted in mid-air. Just for a fraction of a second. Almost imperceptible.
“What boxes?”
“His old photos. Journals. Things from before.”
“There isn't much left, Harper.”
“Nothing?”
“After the crash… a lot was destroyed.”
“In the crash?”
“Yes.”
I don't know why, but a cold prickle of intuition warned me she was lying. It was the first crack. Small. Hairline. But once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it.
Days later, Marcus slipped up. Accidentally.
We were hunting for extension cords for the Christmas lights when he muttered:
“I think there’s a heavy toolbox up in the attic, shoved right next to Arthur’s old things.”
Eleanor dropped her ceramic mug. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces across the hardwood floor. We all jumped.
She plastered on a frantic smile.
“I’m so clumsy.”
But her hands were violently trembling.
That night, I didn't sleep. I lay paralyzed, waiting for the house to fall into a deathly silence. For Leo to power down his console. For Noah to stop texting. For Marcus to shut his bedroom door. For Eleanor’s shower to finally turn off.
Then I crept to the hallway and pulled down the attic stairs. The folding ladder shrieked as if it were warning me to turn back.
Upstairs, the air was thick with suffocating dust, hot wood, and buried secrets. I swept my phone’s flashlight through the dark. There were holiday bins. Battered suitcases. A rusted fan.
And in the very back, buried under a heavy, moth-eaten blanket, I found a cardboard box tightly bound with heavy twine.
It had a name slashed across it in aggressive black marker:
ARTHUR.
My lungs seized. I don't know how long I stood there staring at those letters. Then I hacked through the twine with a pair of rusted shears.
Inside were relics of a ghost. Neatly folded flannels. A shattered wristwatch. Tax ledgers. Photos. Dozens of photos.
My dad in his dorm room. My dad holding me as a fragile newborn. My dad in front of a birthday cake. My dad hugging a woman who was not Eleanor.
I froze.
The woman was strikingly young. She had wild, dark hair, massive expressive eyes, and a protective hand resting on her swollen belly.
Written on the back in blue ink:
Clara and Harper. 1999.
Clara. My biological mother.
For the first time in twenty years, I saw her face. She wasn't just a tragic concept anymore. She wasn't a hollow phrase. She wasn't “she gave you her whole life.” She was a real, breathing woman. With lips exactly like mine. With a laugh permanently frozen on paper.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob.
I kept digging. Trembling. There were more photos. Letters. Creased hospital receipts. An old birth certificate.
And then I saw the envelope.
It was buried at the very bottom, sealed inside a plastic sleeve, as if someone had desperately wanted to protect it from rot and time. My name was written across the front.
For Harper. Only when she is old enough to ask.
The jagged handwriting belonged to my dad. I recognized it instantly from the few birthday cards Eleanor kept in a pristine album.
My fingers went numb. I wanted to run downstairs. I wanted to shake Eleanor awake. I wanted to demand she explain this away with her soothing, perfect voice.
But a dark, primal dread pinned my knees to the floorboards.
I ripped the envelope open.
Inside were four densely written pages. And a single Polaroid.
My dad. My biological mom. And Eleanor.
All three of them together. Sitting in our exact living room. Smiling conspiratorially as if they shared a twisted, unspeakable secret.
The oxygen vanished from my body.
Downstairs, the attic hatch groaned.
Eleanor’s voice drifted up, laced with a chilling edge I had never heard before.
“Harper?”
I didn't move. I didn't answer.
I unfolded the first page. The ink was slightly faded, but the words were a punch to the gut. My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I could barely focus my eyes.
The letter started with a date. The exact night before his fatal crash.
Then came my name.
And then, the first line. A single, devastating line. The line that made me stop calling her Mom for a second:
“Harper, if you are reading this, forgive me… Eleanor did not come into your life by accident.”

21/07/2026

A couple was found inside a car. Suspect was eating their or... See more

21/07/2026

My wife was in the shower when a text popped up from an unknown number: “I miss your kisses.” I texted back, “Come over. My husband’s not home.” When the front door opened… the person standing there left me completely frozen.
I was standing in the kitchen with one hand braced against the counter, pressing my knuckles into the knot in my lower back that always flared up after a long shift at the logistics center. It was a Tuesday in November, unusually cold for Scranton, Pennsylvania—the kind of damp, biting chill that didn’t just blow past you, but seeped in and settled right behind your ribs. I’d gotten home around 7:00, a bit later than usual, and the house echoed with the same tired sounds it always did at that hour: the pipes rattling upstairs while the shower ran, the refrigerator buzzing too loudly, the vintage wall clock in the dining room ticking like it had somewhere urgent to be.
There was a mug of coffee on the counter beside me that I’d poured an hour earlier and promptly forgotten about. It was lukewarm by then, bitter enough to make me wince, but I drank it anyway. That was exactly the kind of evening it was. The kind where even everyday disappointment felt routine.
Sarah’s phone buzzed once on the granite counter.
I didn’t glance at it right away.
I’m not that guy. Or at least, I didn't used to be. Twenty-five years of marriage teaches you that folks deserve a little private space, even when life has ground you down into a quieter, more suspicious version of the man you meant to become. But then it buzzed a second time. The screen illuminated the dark kitchen. My eyes flicked over before my conscience could tap the brakes.
Unknown number.
And right beneath it, a message sitting there as clean and deliberate as a hunting knife left out in the open.
I miss your kisses.
I stared at that screen longer than I care to admit.
Long enough for the coffee in my hand to go ice-cold.
Long enough for my chest to tighten in that strange, suspended way it does when the ugly truth reaches you before your brain has agreed to let it in.
Long enough for my mind to scramble for every useless mercy it could conjure up.
Wrong number.
A bad joke.
Misread context.
Anything easier to swallow.
But I had been married to Sarah Vance for 25 years. I knew the difference between a maybe and the cold, hard truth.
The shower upstairs just kept running, steady and normal, acting like nothing in the world had shifted. I set the mug down, picked up her cell, and just held it there in my palm. My thumb hovered over the digital keyboard. I could hear the water hitting the shower tile. I could picture her upstairs rinsing the suds from her hair, moving through that same master bathroom we’d painted ourselves back in 2008 because we couldn't afford to hire a contractor to do it right.
I typed it out slowly.
Come over. My husband’s not home.
I read it over twice.
It didn’t feel like my own words, even though I was the one typing them. It didn’t feel like my life. Then, I hit send.
After that, I placed the phone back down exactly where it had been resting. Same angle. Same exact spot beside the salt shaker. As if preserving the arrangement might somehow preserve the world I had before the message arrived.
It didn’t.
The next ten minutes stretched out wider than any full hour I can recall.
I walked into the living room.
Sat down on the recliner.
Stood right back up.
Peeked through the front window blinds.
Listened to the steady hum of the shower.
Looked at the phone.
Looked away.
I told myself I was just being paranoid. That nobody was actually going to show up at my house. That this was something easily explainable, some private ugliness that would stay digital and vague if I just breathed through the panic long enough. Maybe whoever sent the text would get spooked. Maybe the whole nightmare would shrink back into the shadows of doubt before it became reality.
Then the doorbell rang.
Sharp. Quick. No hesitation.
I felt the chime lower in my body than hearing ought to go—somewhere deep in my gut, somewhere tucked behind the ribs. I walked to the front door a lot slower than I should have. Every single step felt thick, like walking through wet cement, as if my body already knew I was heading toward a version of my life that would never look the same once I turned that k**b.
When I finally opened it, Reverend Thomas Alden was standing on my porch.
He was sixty-one years old, silver at the temples, sporting a neat haircut and a clean shave, wearing the kind of tailored navy blazer that looked expensive without even trying. In his hand, he carried a glass pie dish covered in tin foil. Later, after the dust settled on all of it, I would remember the smell first. Cherry. Sarah’s absolute favorite.
For a solid second, neither of us said a word.
I must have taken a step back without meaning to, because I suddenly caught the scent of his cologne—sharp, department-store clean, way too polished for my front porch. It completely clashed with everything I was and everything my house usually smelled like at the end of a long workday. Stale coffee. Motor oil. Fabric softener. The damp wool of winter coats. Scuffed work boots by the door.
He offered a slight, familiar smile.
“Evening, Marcus.”
It was the exact same voice he’d used in my own kitchen two months prior while giving a sermon on patience. The same smooth tone he used at Sunday potlucks, marriage counseling sessions, and every single moment where he needed calm to sound like pure righteousness.
I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at the man.
And what shifted inside me wasn’t the fiery explosion people always expect when a husband finally catches sight of the betrayal he’s been trying his hardest not to name. I didn’t break. My temper didn’t flare. It went so much colder than that. Cleaner. Like a steel blade being lifted straight out of boiling water.
From behind me, I heard the creak of footsteps on the hallway floorboards.
Sarah.
I didn’t even have to turn around. I knew from the dead silence that she’d frozen the exact second she laid eyes on him.
“Are you going to let me stand out in the cold all night?” Thomas asked lightly, still holding that cherry pie like a prop from a totally normal Tuesday evening.
I took a deliberate step aside.
“No,” I said flatly. “Come on in, Reverend.”
He walked right past me like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Which, looking back on it now, maybe he actually had.
Sarah was standing halfway down the hall with dripping wet hair and a bath towel wrapped tightly around her body, completely rooted to the floor. Her wide eyes darted from Thomas, to me, and finally to her cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter. She understood instantly. She knew the text had been intercepted. She knew someone had walked right into the trap. She knew that I knew.
“Marcus,” she started, her voice shaking.
I held up a single hand—not threatening, just firm enough to stop the first lie before it could come out dressed up as an explanation.
“Let’s not do this halfway,” I said quietly. “Not tonight.”...

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National Highway Bad-As, Placer Surigao Del Norte (Beside Minute Burger )
Surigao City
8400

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