I am Wyatt Lancaster. Or, Mr. Smith, here in Maple Creek. I run a woodworking shop, pay my taxes, and pretend I don’t instinctively scan every room for exits. It’s a quiet life—one I built with my wife, who used to be as deadly as me. Now, she juggles school lunches instead of knives. Our son, Noah, is six, sharp as a blade, and blissfully unaware that his parents once made a living ending lives. I’d like to keep it that way. But the past never stays buried, does it?