As we reach her porch, she pauses, her hand resting on the railing. “Thanks, I guess, for walking me here.”
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask, glancing at my phone again to check the monitor. “If not, I can have my brother come by.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Your brother?”
“Malerick. He’s the town sheriff now.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but then she shakes her head. “Nah, just keep this between us, please. I really don’t want anyone to know I’m back yet. Thank you, though.”
I nod, my expression softening. “Anytime.”
As I walk back to my own house, the faint light in her window glowing behind me, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. It’s not just her sudden reappearance. It’s the way she looks at the world, like it’s out to get her. Like she’s been running for a long time and isn’t sure if she’s finally stopped—or if this is just a break before whatever was chasing her catches up.
Chapter Three
Nysa
The silence lingers after Hopper leaves, pressing in from all sides, dense and unyielding. I close the door behind him and lean against it, the cold wood a steady anchor. For a brief moment while he was here, the air felt different—lighter. The barn didn’t seem so stifling, the house not quite as . . . haunted.
Now, it’s back.
The stillness.
The unease.
I push my fingers into my scalp and exhale, forcing my shoulders to loosen. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Hopper didn’t pry—thank God. He didn’t push, didn’t ask too many questions, just . . . existed in my barn like he belonged. I almost laughed when he called me out for hiding. Almost. If he knew why I left—why I came back—he wouldn’t be so casual about it.
The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I close the front door again, making sure it’s really closed. Flicking the lock twice to make sure it catches. Old habit. Old fear.
The house feels colder as I move through it, the floorboards groaning beneath my steps. My footsteps echo as I walk to the kitchen and flick on the light. It flickers once before settling. A weak, yellow glow.
The counters are bare, except for a cracked mug I left behind when I walked out three years ago. It’s still there, the faint stain of dried coffee at the bottom like it’s been waiting for me to pick it up and finish what I started.
I almost laugh at the thought. Almost.
Instead, I grab a glass from the cabinet, rinse it out in the sink, and fill it with water. The cold hits the back of my throat like a shock, grounding me for a moment. I lean against the counter and stare at the window above the sink. The reflection stares back—tired eyes, unruly hair, and the faintest tremor in my hands I wish I could ignore.
I shouldn’t have come back.
The thought sneaks in, unwelcome. It lingers, curling around my ribs and squeezing. I remind myself why I’m here, why I had no choice. My grandmother needs me. It’s probably temporary. Just until she’s healthy again.
Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the window. I glance toward the barn in the distance, its silhouette dark and still against the faint glow of the moon. Hopper’s words echo in my head. What are you so afraid of?
That night, the arms of that guy catching me. They were going to kill me, bury me next to the other body. The gunshots that almost . . . but they didn’t, I remind myself.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
The old bed creaks under my weight as I toss and turn, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Every noise feels amplified in the dark—the creak of the walls, the groan of the floorboards, the distant hum of the wind. It’s like the house is alive, remembering every moment I’ve tried to forget.
When I finally drift off, sleep is restless. Dreams of the past, fractured and vivid, pull me under only to hurl me back to the surface. I wake before dawn, breath coming fast, heart racing as if I’ve been running. The room is dim, the faintest light slipping through the curtains.
I shove back the covers and sit up, my pulse still hammering from the remnants of the dream. The room is still, too still, as if holding its breath. I push to my feet, the cool floor a jolt against my skin. A slight unsteadiness lingers as I cross to the door, my fingers grazing the handle before I pause, listening.
Nothing.
The hush of the house feels unnatural, like something waiting just out of sight.
The hallway stretches ahead, dim in the pre-dawn light. My fingertips drift along the railing as I descend, each step careful, deliberate. Sleep still tugs at the edges of my mind, but underneath it, something colder coils, something that refuses to fade.
