But then I remember the threatening note. The slashed tires. The bloody handprint on my porch. All those bodies on my land.
And I know better than to let myself believe in things like safety and permanence. Still, a part of me wishes I don’t have to run anymore. That I can stay and have a home. A place that’s mine and maybe . . . the images of Maddie and Hopper appear, but that’s impossible, isn’t it?
Chapter Seventeen
Nysa
My grandmother starts working at eight-thirty. I decide to join her because honestly staying at home seems . . . boring. The bell above the door jingles softly as I walk into Cozy Corner Books. The familiar scent of old paper and fresh coffee wraps around me like a hug.
The bookstore is exactly how I remember it. The warm wooden floors creak slightly under my boots as I make my way inside, the light filtering through the tall windows catching the spines of books stacked neatly on shelves that seem to stretch forever. It’s always been a magical place.
Even when I was little, back before I understood what magic really was, I felt it here. Mom and Dad would always bring us to choose one book. We always ended up buying three each. Dad was more afraid of Mom going to a bookstore than the mall. He knew she’d spend a lot of money there because she loved books.
She inherited that love from Grandma, of course.
Books have always been part of my family’s life, a devotion passed down through generations. Grandma was the high school librarian long before I ever roamed those halls, back when Mom started first grade, and she worked there until my grandfather passed. Retirement didn’t pull her away from what she loved. If anything, it gave her the chance to claim it fully. So when she told me she was buying this place, I wasn’t surprised. A bookshop filled with the scent of paper and ink. A place where there were worlds she could explore and she could recommend to the people who dropped by . . . that’s exactly where a woman like her should spend her days.
“You haven’t changed much,” I say, my gaze settling on the chessboard in the reading nook by the window. The pieces are mid-battle, locked in silent strategy, waiting for the next move. The chairs around it are plush, their fabric worn from years of people sinking into them, drawn into stories they weren’t ready to leave behind.
Grandma hums as she moves behind the counter, already flipping through a stack of books and turning on the register. “Why change perfection?” she muses, her voice warm with certainty.
Her silver hair is twisted up into a loose bun, strands escaping around the edges. Her reading glasses perch at the tip of her nose as she glances over the titles, sorting them with a precision that only comes from years of knowing exactly where each one belongs.
I move toward the children’s section before she can ask, already knowing she’ll need the help. The shelves here are lower, small enough for little hands to reach, lined with colorful spines and bright covers. A rocking chair sits near the back, draped with a soft throw, a basket of stuffed animals tucked beside it. Grandma hands me a few books without asking, and I take them, placing them where they belong as she lingers over a few, flipping through their pages, as if remembering why she chose them in the first place.
As I look at a book called Haley Horse, I think about Maddie. She would love this book and I know for a fact that she doesn’t have it. Maybe I should buy it for her. I can just imagine her tucked in bed looking through the colorful pages while holding Lala.
“She’s adorable,” I say, breaking the quiet as I set a hardcover into its place.
“Who?” Grandma asks.
“Maddie,” I reply, looking at the next book and wondering if I should just buy the hole stack. “Hopper’s daughter.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Ah, yes. She is the sweetest thing.” She pauses, her gaze flicking toward me, something unreadable shifting behind it. Then, with the kind of knowing only grandmothers seem to possess, she tilts her head slightly. “And what about her father?”
“What about him?” I ask before she can lay the trap I see forming in her eyes.
She’s always encouraged women to build their own lives, but that’s never stopped her from slipping in the occasional nudge toward something more. Marriage. Happiness. A future that includes vows, a picket fence, and great-grandchildren. A life that feels worlds away from anything I’ve pictured for myself—now or maybe ever.
I roll my eyes, already bracing for what’s coming. “Don’t start.”
Eloise Harper gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push. Instead, she nods toward a small stack of books beside me. “There’s one in the non-fiction section about toddlers. If you’re interested.”
“Why would I be?” I ask, heading toward the non-fiction section because maybe I would like to know some about the behavior of toddlers. Once I’m there, I reach for the top book, flipping it open. It’s filled with tips on understanding their behavior, managing tantrums, and fostering independence.
“She’s at such a fun age,” I say, more to myself than to my grandmother. “Curious about everything. Always asking questions.”
“And you enjoy being around her,” Eloise observes, her tone light but pointed.
I glance at her, a little defensive. “She’s a good kid.”
“She is,” my grandmother agrees. Then, after a moment, she adds, “And her father? He’s good too?”
I set the book down, giving her a look. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“It’s a grandmother’s job,” she says with a shrug. “He’s always been good. All of them. Smart too, even with all the trouble in their lives. They were always good.”
“What I don’t understand is why no one ever did something about their father,” I state.
