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“Don't,” Paula says firmly, a shaky finger pointed in his direction. My gaze bounces between them, brows furrowed as the tension builds. The two stare each other down for a long moment, but when another group enters the diner, Paula rips her gaze away.

“I'll be right with you,” she calls out, “after I clean up this mess.”

Those last words were directed at my uncle, but he only sighs and shakes his head when she stomps away. “Christ Almighty.”

“What was that about?” I ask, slowly pouring a packet of sugar into my coffee.

Gale waves a hand through the air. “Her son, Dennis. Kid used to work the night guard position before he unfortunately passed away. It was a terrible accident, but she blames the mill.”

“What happened to him?”

“Now’s… not the right time or place to discuss it,” he grimaces, picking up his menu. “We can talk when I show you where you'll be staying.”

Right. Not only does the night guard patrol the old lumber mill after sunset, they live on the grounds during shift. Apparently, so does the day guard.

Once we’ve both ordered food from a still-very-upset Paula, the chatter in the diner picks up again. Gale begins droning on about the history of Deadfall, some boring story that I only half-pay attention to. The town was originally built to house mining workers back in the 1800s, but the mines became flooded. It was either turn to the logging business, or starve. I'm nearly finished with my biscuits and gravy by the time he gets into his family's company.

“Gale's Timber Hauling has been around for three generations,” he explains, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Your ma was supposed to help run it with me, you know. Least until she ran off with your pa.”

That piques my interest, and I set my fork down slowly. “I thought she got disowned.”

My uncle scoffs. “Is that what they been telling you kids? Nonsense! Our old man was heartbroken when she disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Left only a letter on her pillow, and that was the last time we ever saw each other. Well, until…”

The funerals. Plural. That I didn’t get to attend.

He trails off, at least showing the decency of seeming remorseful at bringing it up. I swallow hard and stare down at my half-empty plate, no longer hungry. An awkward silence passes between us until he reaches over to pat my wrist. “Didn't know him very well, but your pa seemed like a good man. I'm sure he was proud of you.”

“Yeah. Right.” Proud isn't exactly the word I'd use. I can still hear his voice in my head—the last words he ever said to me.

“You've torn this family apart.”

That was ten seconds before his heart stopped and he dropped to the floor. Ten minutes after that, he was pronounced dead on arrival. We lost two lives that day, and I'm the only one to blame.

Eventually, Gale tosses a twenty onto the counter and gets to his feet. “What say we get out of here and get you settled in? You've had quite the long drive, you're probably dead on your feet.”

He's not wrong. Twenty-two hours straight with only a small nap in between on the side of the road in my car. And yet, as I follow him out of the diner and into the hometown of my dead parents, I've never felt more energized.

Chapter

Two

Benji

It takes us five minutes to cross the entire town.

Main street’s a straight shot—one diner, one bar and one gas station with two pumps. There's a handful of mom-and-pop shops, too. The rest spreads out into gravel roads and tree lines that swallow everything else. My chest tightens, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as I trail my uncle through the twisting, turning mountain roads.

Back in Kansas, you could see the fields for miles. Out here, though, the forest is too thick. Almost suffocatingly dark. Our headlights and the stars above are the only sources of illumination, not even a street lamp in sight.

Panic begins to claw at my skin, small prickles of unease that only increase when a rain storm picks up.

Finally, mere seconds before I have a full-on meltdown, something bright breaks the gloom just ahead. Gale slows his truck, and I follow suit, riding his bumper until we pull up to some kind of guard shack beaconed by a floodlight. Attached to it is a metal gate with the words Aster's Hollow painted in dripping red letters. The sight does nothing to calm my nerves.

When Gale kills his engine, the sudden silence rings loudly in my ears as I do the same. An older man steps out of the shack, one hand braced against the door with a ball cap shadowing his face. I roll down my window just in time to hear him greet us.

“Evenin’, Gale.”

“Hey, Hank.”