She stares at me for a moment, then nods, trusting me in the way only a child can.
It’s a promise, but also a lie. I don’t know how to protect her if I have no idea what’s happening. The unease lingers, wrapping around me, settling deep.
Something’s coming. I can feel it. It happened when . . . I don’t want to remember that night and all the losses.
This time it won’t happen again. I need to figure out what it is before it’s too late.
Chapter Five
Nysa
Four days.
Four days of trying to convince myself this was the right move. Four days of pacing these creaky floors, scrubbing at surfaces that still feel like they belong to someone else, filling the silence with podcasts I don’t pay attention to. Four days of telling myself that the unease twisting in my stomach is just nerves.
Four days of lying.
And I still haven’t gone to town to tell my grandmother I’m home. I haven’t even texted her. Not until I know it’s safe.
The morning is dense with gray, a sky that clings too low, pressing into the trees, the house, me. I pull on my boots, grab my thermos, and step onto the porch. Thank you, Hopper Timberbridge, for the coffee maker and the coffee. That man is not only hot, but also a godsend. He’s been leaving food on my doorstep like some small-town guardian angel—leftovers, sandwiches, the occasional pastry wrapped in parchment.
Our interactions have been less . . . I haven’t seen him. It’s like he’s avoiding me. Maybe his wife isn’t happy that he’s dropping by and helping the woman next door. I’m not a threat, though. I wouldn’t look at another woman’s man. Even when he is really sexy. In another life I would give him a second glance. Confession time: I did have a crush on him in high school, but he was a senior and obviously out of my league.
But enough about Hopper. Today, I have a plan. I’m finally going to see Grandma, figure out what’s happening with her health, and decide if we need to leave. She probably needs medical attention. A center that focuses on . . . whatever she has. Maybe Boston. I know people there, people who can help. The bookstore will manage without her.
I’m almost excited—or as excited as one can be—when I see it.
I halt mid-step. My stomach drops.
The tires.
What the fuck?
The thermos slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Coffee seeps into the dirt, a slow, creeping stain. My attention is locked on the slashed rubber, all four tires ruined. The gashes are jagged, brutal. Not random. Not careless.
A laugh bubbles up, loud and humorless, scraping against my throat. Because of course. Of course. The second I try to get my footing, someone’s already there to knock me off balance.
“It’s just kids,” I mutter, crouching to get a closer look. But even as I say it, the words ring false.
No kid hiked all the way out here to do this.
The cuts are too deep. This didn’t happen by accident. My stomach tightens, the first tendrils of fear curling through my ribs. I shove the feeling down. Maybe it was a black bear, Nys. The lie is flimsy, and I know it.
My hands tremble as I pull out my phone and snap a few pictures. I’ll call the shop later, get a tow. Not like I can drive the damn thing anywhere now.
The screen reflects my face back at me—pale, drawn, eyes shadowed from nights spent staring at the ceiling, rereading Grandma’s text. I’m sick, you should come home. That’s all it said. Of course I had to come. I can’t lose the only family I have left.
I straighten, brushing dirt off my palms, and turn back toward the house. The porch steps creak beneath my boots. My mind is already moving ahead, listing everything I need to do, everything I need to figure out?—
That’s when I see it. A handprint smudged across the railing, smeared dark red against the peeling white paint.
I go still, breath locking in my throat.
No.
It’s paint. It has to be paint. Someone’s idea of a joke, a stupid prank meant to get under my skin. But when I step closer, the smell hits me—coppery, raw.
Blood.
