“Who the hell are you?” His breath is hot, reeking of cigarettes and something metallic. His fingers tighten. “You spying on us?”
“Let me go—” I gasp, choking.
Recognition flares in his eyes. “I’ve seen you around.”
The other men exchange looks, a silent, sinister conversation passing between them.
“Let’s just get rid of her. We already have a hole,” one says, stepping closer.
Panic surges through me, adrenaline screaming at me to move.
I drive my knee up, hard. The man howls in pain, releasing me, and I stumble back, sucking in a desperate breath. Then I run. I run as fast as I can. The storm blurs everything—the ground slick, my vision obscured by rain. Behind me, shouting. Footsteps pounding.
Then—gunshots.
Sparks fly off my truck as bullets tear through the metal. I throw myself into the driver’s seat, slam the door shut, and floor the accelerator. The tires skid, mud spraying, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
They know where I live. They saw my face.
I have no idea where to go.
But I know one thing for sure.
I can’t stay home.
Chapter One
Nysa
I feel like a thief.
A thief coming back to the scene of the crime.
Like a ghost slipping through the cracks of a life that probably doesn’t belong to me.
Just like that night three years ago, the air is thick with mist. Moonlight slices through the skeletal branches of the trees lining the long gravel drive, casting silver shadows that flicker like ghosts. My hands tighten around the wheel as I take the final turn, my breath shallow, my pulse drumming against my ribs.
Maybe this is a mistake. I should turn around, go back home. But what if it’s fine? What if I’m just being paranoid? I could’ve come back in the morning, talked to the sheriff and . . . but what would the old man have done? Nothing.
It’s been three years.
Three years since I last saw this place. Since I jumped in my truck and ran as far as I could. Grandma Milly insists everything is fine—not that she’s actually come to check on my property. Nope. She was against it from the start. It’s too far from town, a girl your age shouldn’t be living in an old place. You don’t know anything about farms.
But I did. That’s what my degree was for. Agroecology and Landscape Design. A Ph.D. in Agricultural Sciences. There was a whole plan—a good one. But plans don’t always work, and I had to leave, praying they wouldn’t hurt my grandmother. I mean, she lives in town, and strangers might not connect that we’re related.
That’s what I was hoping for all along while I was away.
But now . . . well, now she says she’s sick. And I can’t ignore that. She’s all I have, and I can’t take care of her through burner phone texts. So, here I am.
The old house looms at the top of the hill, its silhouette jagged against the mist-laden sky. The wraparound porch, once pristine, is edged with peeling paint. One of the shutters on the second floor hangs askew, rattling in the wind like an omen. The barn to the right, dark and hulking, stands just as I left it—though something about the way it leans sends a prickle down my spine.
I shouldn’t be here.
But there was nowhere else to go. I don’t want Grandma to know I’m here until I know it’s safe. Staying at a hotel is out of the question. It’d be a very stupid financial decision. I don’t have much money and the little I have is going to be used to fix my house.
Killing the headlights, I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, listening. The night is too quiet. The town sleeps in the valley below, the nearest neighbor miles away. It’s exactly what I need. No prying eyes, no whispered rumors.
