Morning came washed in golden light. The puddles looked like mirrors. The fields steamed, dew still clinging to the fence wire, and the world smelled new again.
I found Milly already in the kitchen, hair damp from her shower, humming at the coffeemaker. She wore one of those soft sweaters that somehow managed to look like home.
“Morning,” she said, handing me a mug. “We survived the night. No lightning damage, no goats on the porch.”
“High bar for success, but I’ll take it.”
She smiled. “You worried half the storm away. You can relax now.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Inspector jumped to the counter, demanding breakfast, and she scattered kibble with surgical precision. The simple ordinariness of it all tugged something deep in me—a reminder that peace wasn’t a stranger here; it just needed protecting.
The knock came mid-sip. Sharp, quick.
I crossed to the door, half expecting Levi or Mason, but a delivery driver stood there with a box tucked under one arm.
“Package for Milly Thomas,” he said. “Paid delivery. No signature needed.”
Milly wiped her hands on a towel. “That’s strange. I didn’t order anything.”
“Who’s it from?” I asked.
He pointed to the label. “Red Hollow.”
The name landed like grit in my teeth. Penny’s old disputes had all come from that place—land, inheritance, long memories.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the box. By the time I turned around, the truck was already pulling away down the lane.
Milly frowned. “Austin, what is it?”
“Let’s just check it first.”
“It’s a cardboard box,” she said, exasperated but smiling. “I don’t need a security detail to open birthday mail.”
“Humor me.”
She sighed but stayed by the counter as I slit the tape with my pocketknife. Inside was a folded piece of paper wrapped around a small, rusted key. The note smelled faintly of smoke.
Everwood doesn’t need another Thomas. Take the hint.
No return address. Just those words, the letters uneven and angry.
Milly’s face went pale. “That’s… someone’s idea of a joke, right?”
“I don’t think so.” I reached for my phone, snapping quick photos of the note, the key, the label. Old habits—catalog, document, contain.
Her voice cracked the silence. “You were going to hide that from me, weren’t you?”
“Milly, I was trying to?—”
“Protect me,” she finished. “That’s what you always say.”
I set the phone down, careful, measured. “Because that’s my job. Because it matters.”
Her eyes flashed. “Your job? I thought we were past the part where this was just an assignment.”
“It’s not,” I said, but the words came too fast, too defensive. “I just—can we talk about this after I take it to Palmer?”
