Honestly, it could go either way.
The last twenty-four hours have felt like walking blindfolded along the edge of a rooftop, the wind pressing in on all sides. One wrong move, and I’d be freefalling. When I cracked in front of them—Hopper, Maddie, Malerick—it wasn’t graceful.
But they didn’t leave.
Instead, they decided I should stay. For now. Until Malerick’s security system is installed at my place. Until the sheriff figures out who’s leaving messages in blood on my porch. Until I stop looking over my shoulder every five seconds.
I didn’t fight it.
But sitting here now, watching Maddie play without a care in the world, I know this is a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be putting them in danger.
“Done,” Maddie declares, her hands clapping together as the tower reaches an impressive height.
“It’s amazing,” I say, matching her excitement.
She giggles, then carefully places one last block on top. The tower wobbles, and she freezes, holding her breath, eyes wide with concentration.
“You’ve got this,” I encourage softly.
For a moment, it holds.
Then the blocks crash down in a messy pile.
Maddie’s hands fly to her cheeks. “Oh no.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, picking up a block and handing it to her. “We can build it again. That’s the fun part.”
She considers this, then nods solemnly. “Otay.”
As she starts stacking the blocks again, I glance up at Hopper. His posture is more relaxed now, his expression softer, but he’s still watching me.
“Can we talk?” I ask quietly, keeping my voice low enough that Maddie won’t hear.
His brows lift slightly, but he nods. “Let me grab her some juice first.”
A few minutes later, Maddie is curled up on the couch, sippy cup in hand, eyes glued to the Little Einstein episode playing on the TV. Hopper motions for me to follow him into the kitchen.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, blue eyes locked on mine. “You okay?”
I laugh, the sound brittle. “Not even close.”
He doesn’t push. He just waits. And for some reason, that makes it easier to talk.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, my grip tightening on the counter.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m listening.”
I inhale deeply, forcing myself to say it. “Three years ago, I witnessed a murder. Or maybe not a murder—maybe just the part where they buried the body. That made me their target.”
His expression darkens, his jaw tightening.
I tell him everything. About the storm, how I used to love rain, how that night changed everything. How I ran—barely made it out alive.
“I didn’t even pack,” I admit. “I just left. Thought about going to my grandmother’s, but I couldn’t bring trouble to her doorstep. So, I ran.”
Hopper’s voice is low when he asks, “Where did you go?”
“Small towns,” I say. “Montana, Washington, Oregon, California. I met people. Made friends. But it was always temporary.”
