“Yes,” Faith said, firm, the anchor in the storm. “We are. Zeke’s right. If this man needs space, we give him space.”
Joy threw her arms up, sighing loud enough for the entire house. “Fine. But for the record, this is weird. Like, next-level weird.”
“Noted,” Zeke quipped, dry as burned toast.
“And if he turns out to be a serial killer, I’m calling it now. No one gets to say they weren’t warned.” Joy flapped her hands for emphasis.
Zeke grunted. “He’s not a serial killer.”
Joy stage-whispered, “That’s exactly what someone harboring a serial killer would say.”
Faith gave Joy her signature eyebrow raise. “Joy, enough.”
“I’m just saying,” Joy mumbled, hands splayed in mock surrender.
Zeke grabbed his coffee, heading for the door, then paused. “I’m serious. If any of you bother him, we’re going to have a problem. Don’t test me.”
After he left, the kitchen hung in a suspended hush. Joy broke it with a theatrical groan. “Well, that was weird.” She made a show of shivering.
“Extremely weird,” Charity echoed, sarcasm back in full force.
Faith sipped her coffee, thoughtful. “He’s protecting him. We must respect that.”
“From what?” I asked, watching Zeke’s retreating form in my mind—guarding, always guarding.
“From us, apparently,” Joan said, tapping her tablet like punctuation. “He only gets territorial when something’s really off.”
Joy leaned in, eyes wide, voice hushed. “Do you think he’s dangerous? Like, secret agent dangerous?”
“No,” Faith said immediately, steady as ever. “Zeke wouldn’t bring someone dangerous home. Not with us here.”
Charity threw up her hands. “What’s the big deal, then? Why’s his name classified?”
No one answered. We all stared at the black-and-chrome motorcycle outside, gleaming in the sun. A silent promise, or maybe a warning.
Personal reasons, Zeke had said.
Going through some shit.
I remembered how the visitor moved last night—deliberate, heavy, carrying burdens. Maybe Zeke recognized the same weight. Maybe protecting him was Zeke’s way of protecting himself, too.
“Hope?” Faith’s voice pulled me back.
I blinked. Faith watched me, steady and concerned.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “Fine.”
But I wasn’t. Something about all this felt different. Like the beginning of a story, or a warning, or maybe a chance.
Chapter Four
Hope
The visitor had been here almost two weeks, and not once had he stepped over the threshold of his room. Sometimes, standing in the silent hallway, I stared at his closed door and wondered if he truly existed or if we had all conjured him up together, like some ghostly secret we were forced to keep. The air felt different around that door, charged with a loneliness that prickled at my skin. I grew more restless with each passing day, worry and curiosity tangling inside my chest, the unanswered questions stealing sleep from my nights.
I listened for him, at first out of habit, the way you noticed the rhythm of a new presence sharing your space. But soon listening became a compulsion, a way to reassure myself he hadn’t vanished. Each creak of the floorboards, each sigh of the house, pulled my attention tight. I felt responsible for the silence, for the untouched food, for whatever haunted him enough to keep him locked away.
