Page 87 of Tessa and Nash

The tires crunch onto gravel.

And the nerves I’ve been tamping down like a controlled burn surge all at once, hot and sharp.

Because I recognize this stretch.

Not from memory, Thomas never brought me here, but from maps. From old plats. From the way the name sits wrong in my mouth. Something I’m not supposed to say.

Juniper House.

The trees open up, and it appears at the end of the drive, a held breath made physical.

An old house, dark and still. Paint weathered, porch swept clean enough to prove someone comes here. The windows stare back blankly.

The air feels colder here.

I park and cut the engine. The sudden silence presses in.

My pulse is loud in my ears.

Nash doesn’t move right away either. He stares at the house like it might shift.

“Well,” he says finally. “That is definitely a horror movie house.”

I swallow. “It’s not haunted.”

He glances at me. “That is exactly what people say right before the door opens by itself.”

My hands are shaking. I hate it.

I force them still and unbuckle my seatbelt. “We’re just looking.”

Nash’s gaze sharpens. “We?”

I open the car door, cold air biting my cheeks like a warning.

“Yes,” I say, stepping out. “We.”

Because if this house holds answers, I’m not walking into them alone.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nash

January 15th

Tessa walks up the porch steps, boots thudding, then pauses at the door.

She hesitates. It’s small. A fraction. A pause in her shoulders. Then she looks at the lock.

Her fingers tighten around the key ring.

“Your uncle comes here a lot?” I ask quietly.

Tessa’s mouth tightens. “I don’t know.”

Then she slides a key into the lock. It turns without resistance.

The door opens with a slow, dry creak that makes the hair on my arms lift.