Page 5 of Weight of Guilt

Wren stood, instantly tensing. “That’s not his annoying, I-want-attention bark. That’s how he barks when he sees or hears something.”

She and her sisters crossed the living room together and pushed through the front door.

Bo darted out ahead of them.

The morning air hit Wren—cool and damp—and she pulled her flannel shirt closer around her. September was like that here in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.

The yard had already started turning. Not the trees yet, but the grass had gone dull at the edges, and the dogwood by the porch steps had dropped enough leaves that somebody would need to rake by the weekend. Nobody would.

The main house sat wide and white behind her, the porch wrapped all the way around. Her cabin sat behind it and off to the left, close enough that she could hear the screen door slam from her kitchen.

Past both houses, at the back of the property, the old barn leaned into the morning. They’d never used it for anything but storing what nobody wanted to throw away. The roof had started to dip on the north end. Another winter or two and it would make the decision for them.

The land here ran flat, and the mountains stood up on every side like walls somebody built a long time ago.

Her gaze followed Bo. The dog had stopped and was barking into the trees.

She froze when she saw something out of place in the distance.

A man—or was he a boy?—lingered in the trees edging the west of their property, probably twenty-five yards from the house. He was half-swallowed by shadows.

Wren stared. Who was he? A lost hiker?

Or . . . was he someone more sinister?

Her thoughts snapped to her seven-year-old son, Mason.

Was he okay?

Of course, he was okay, she chided herself, forcing her shoulders to relax. He was at his father’s house. He should be fine.

This man-boy in the woods couldn’t hurt him.

She blew out a breath. Why did she always jump to worst-case scenarios? Actually, she knew why. It was a trauma response.

Bo stopped probably six feet away from the man-child and kept barking at the stranger.

“Who is that?” Marlowe muttered as she squeezed in beside her.

“I have no idea,” Nora said. “A lost hiker?”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Wren wrapped her arms more tightly across her chest, not liking the bad feeling in her gut. “But if it’s a lost hiker, why is he staring at us?”

No one responded.

She stared back. This wasn’t someone who was lost and needed help, or someone just passing through.

It was almost like he was there . . . for them.

He took a step out of the woods. The man-boy was thin—too thin—and he wore ratty jeans and a stained, oversized T-shirt. His hair looked unkempt and his face dirty.

It almost appeared as if he’d been living out in those woods for a long time. In fact, there was something almost feral about him.

Bo went quiet, then started barking again. He circled the stranger in stiff, uncertain loops. His tail hung low against his legs, his nose worked the air, and his ears were back.

“We can’t just stare at him,” Marlowe said. “What do we do?”

“We need to find out who he is,” Wren said, unable to tear her gaze away from the man. “What he wants.”