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The pigs swarm the spot instantly, their grunts and squeals drowning out the thudding in my chest.

“Smart animals,” Clyde says, straightening. “But unpredictable. You know that, right? Once they get a taste for something, it’s hard to break them of it.”

I force a tight smile. “Thanks for the advice.”

The walk back to the cabin feels longer, the silence stretching between us. Clyde stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, his gaze thoughtful.

“You’ve got quite the setup out here,” he says finally. “I was always a little envious of all the land your family had.”

“You, envious? I hope you’ve dropped to your knees and asked for forgiveness for that sin you just confessed to.”

He laughs, “We’re all a work in progress, Lydia. Even you.”

I nod, not wanting to continue the conversation.

“Bet it gets lonely, though.” He says once we arrive at his truck.

“Not really. I like the quiet.”

“I can’t see how anyone would like the quiet. Especially after growing up in the church. You were raised around people; I figured you’d like to stay around them.”

“I’m around people enough, Clyde. I like my solitude.”

“I guess you’re right. It must be nice to have a place where people can’t… meddle.”

I glance at him, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Nothing, really. Just thinking about how different it is out here. Feels like… no one’s watching.”

The words settle over me, heavy and strange. Before I can respond, he shakes his head, his grin returning. “Anyway, just wanted to check in. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Clyde,” I say, my voice tight. “Take care.”

He lingers, his eyes searching mine, before finally turning and pulling his truck door open. The engine rumbles to life, and he glances back once before driving away.

Inside the cabin, I lean against the door, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My mind replays every second of Clyde’s visit, the blood in the pen, his questions, the way his gaze lingered too long on everything.

Did he see it? Does he know?

At the sink, I wash my hands in scalding water, scrubbing until my skin burns. The pigs weren’t supposed to leave anything behind. I’d been so careful. But the land wasn’t perfect. The pigs weren’t perfect.

And neither was I.

The sound of their grunts drift through the open window, faint but constant. I close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll clean the pen again.

I’ll dig deeper.

CHAPTER

TEN

The night presses heavily against the cabin, the wind weaving through the trees like hushed voices in prayer. Steam billows up around me as I stand in the shower, the water scalding but never hot enough to burn away the blood. Crimson rivulets swirl down the drain, ribbons of diluted sin disappearing into the watery void.

I scrub until my skin feels raw, my nails dragging over each faded stain as if the memory of it lingers just beneath the surface. Blood stays anyway, worked into the creases of my knuckles, deeper than the soap can touch. My arms ache with the effort, muscles taut and screaming for rest, but I don’t stop. Not until the water runs clear. When I turn off the tap, the silence is deafening. The chill of the air bites at my damp skin as I wrap myself in a towel, the fabric coarse against my sensitive flesh. My reflection stares back at me from the fogged mirror. I wipe the glass clean with trembling fingers, as if erasing the image of myself could erase the evening. But there I am. Pale, drawn, eyes ringed in shadows too deep for sleep to fix. The kind of face built by years of surviving instead of living.

My hair clings to my temples in dark, wet strands, once a warm chestnut, now dulled and heavy. I don’t remember the last time I brushed it with any real intention. It’s always pulled back, always out of the way. Practical. Controlled. My skin is the kind that doesn’t tan, just burns and peels, leaving a permanent undertone of wear. Faint freckles still dust the bridge of my nose, barely a trace of the girl I used to be. The scar above my left eyebrow, thin, white, nearly invisible unless the light hits it right, is a reminder of the first time I stood up to my father and learned what that would cost.

I look older than twenty-nine. Not because of age, but because of memory. There’s something about carrying this much weight that pulls your features down with it. My mouth is always set, like I’m bracing for something. My shoulders, always slightly tense. Even at rest, my body doesn’t trust peace. This is the version of me the world sees, tired, plain, forgettable.