Chapter 1 - Alice
The evening air is cool against my flushed cheeks as Biscuit pulls me down Main Street, his tail wagging like he's never been happier in his entire life. Which, knowing Biscuit, might actually be true.
Every walk is the best walk. Every fire hydrant is a discovery. Every fallen leaf is a gift from the universe specifically for him.
I wish I had even a fraction of his optimism.
"Slow down, buddy," I say, but there's no real force behind it.
He knows it too, glancing back at me with his tongue lolling out, one ear flopped over in that way that made me fall in love with him the second I saw him at the shelter.
That was three months ago. Three months since I walked into that building with my eyes still puffy from crying and my heart feeling like something I'd dropped on concrete. Three months since I looked at this ridiculous, oversized ball of golden fur and thought, *Yes. You. You're mine now.*
My ex had always said no to a dog. Too much mess, too much responsibility, too much everything. Funny how "too much" was his favorite phrase for anything I wanted, but never seemed to apply to the twenty-two-year-old he was sleeping with behind my back.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. I've gotten good at that, the mental redirect, the shift of focus. Dr. Morrison, my therapist, says it's a healthy coping mechanism. My best friend Claire says I'm bottling things up and one day I'm going to explode like a shaken soda can.
They're probably both right.
Biscuit stops to investigate a particularly interesting spot near Murphy's Grill, and I let him, pulling my cardigan tighter around myself. October in Blackwater Falls means the temperature drops the second the sun does, and I'm already regretting not grabbing my heavier jacket. But the walk is part of my routine now, same time every evening, same route through town.
Routine is safe. Routine is predictable. Routine doesn't lie to you or make you feel like you're fundamentally unlovable because you happen to take up more space than some arbitrary standard says you should.
"All done?" I ask Biscuit, who looks up at me with pure adoration, like I just asked him the most profound question in the universe.
We start walking again, past the grill, past the hardware store that's been run by the same family for three generations, past the flower shop that makes my classroom smell amazing every Monday morning when I stop in for fresh blooms for my desk.
This town is mine in a way nothing else has ever been. I was born here, grew up here, teach here. My parents left me their house when they died. The only truly solid thing I have that's completely, entirely mine.
My space. My walls. My furniture arranged exactly how I want it.
No one to tell me the couch should face the other direction or that I really should consider getting rid of my mother's old bookshelf because it doesn't "fit the aesthetic."
I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't notice when Biscuit's whole body goes tense beside me.
"What's wrong, buddy?" I ask, looking down at him. His ears are back, his tail has stopped wagging, and he's pressing against my legs in a way he never does unless something is wrong.
That's when I hear the footsteps behind me.
"Evening, sweetheart."
The voice makes my skin crawl. I turn, keeping my hand on Biscuit's collar, and find three men I've never seen before standing too close. Not locals. I know every face in this town, every regular, every troublemaker. These men are strangers, and something about the way they're looking at me makes my heart start to pound.
"Can I help you?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
The one who spoke—tall, greasy hair, smile that doesn't reach his eyes takes a step closer. "Just being friendly. Nice dog you got there."
"Thank you." I take a step back, pulling Biscuit with me. "We're just heading home."
"Aw, don't be like that." Another one moves to my left, cutting off that angle. "We're new in town. Just looking for some company. Someone to show us around."
My throat feels tight. Main Street isn't empty, but it's not crowded either. The dinner rush at Murphy's is dying down, and most people are inside now that the temperature has dropped.
"I don't think so," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You should try the visitor's center. They have maps."
"Maps are boring." The third one—shorter, stockier, mean eyes—moves to my right. They're surrounding me now, a loose triangle with me and Biscuit at the center. "We'd rather have a personal guide. Especially one as pretty as you."
Biscuit whimpers, pressing harder against my legs, and that somehow makes it worse. My dog is scared because I'm scared, and these men can see it, can smell it on me like blood in the water.
