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The twitch in my hand becomes a tremor.

“I’m nothing like him,” I say through clenched teeth.

He smirks. “You keep saying that. But every time you take another man out, you get a little closer. It’s not just justice you want. It’s control. Power. Vengeance.”

“Leave, Jonah. So, help me.”

“God. You forgot to say God, Lydia.” He holds up both hands, mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop.” He backs away slowly, eyes flicking once more to the shed. He pauses, a smile curling. “And if you keep digging…” He pauses then shakes his head. “What do I mean, if. You will because you just can’t help yourself.” His eyes flick to the shed one more time. “Just make sure you like what you find when you hit bottom.”

He’s still watching me when he says it, waiting to see it land. That’s the moment. His guard’s still down, pleased with himself, the space between us is nothing. I could take two steps, maybe three, and be close enough that I could end this before he finishes gloating. My hand finds the knife in my pocket, metal cool against my palm.

I don’t move.

He turns, unhurried, and walks off into the tree line like nothing happened. I watch until the tree line swallows him. Then I step back into the shed. The journal still lies open on the workbench, Levi’s name underlined, over and over. A threat. A tether.

I stare at it, my fingers still twitching.

Jonah’s gone.

I let him go.

But his words linger like smoke.

And I know now, he’s right about one thing.

I am not done.

CHAPTER

FORTY

The morning air is sharp, crisp enough to bite as I park in front of Clyde’s house. Last week’s snowstorm proved that we’re no match for Mother Nature’s February fury. The remnants of snow still cling to Hurricane like webs. Fine and stubborn.

His bungalow stands at odds with the tired, sagging structures that make up the rest of Hurricane, fresh paint, perfectly aligned shutters, the flag out front still clinging to its pole like it’s got something left to fight for.

I step out of the truck, the bag slung over my shoulder pulling at my side like a weight I forgot to set down. My boots crunch the gravel, each step louder than it should be in a neighborhood this still.

The porch is spotless, not a leaf or a scuff out of place. Every board scrubbed clean, gleaming in the weak sunlight like the rest of the world should take notes.

When he opens the door, Clyde looks like a man waiting for Sunday. Clean-shaven. Hair damp and slicked back. Shirt ironed sharp enough to cut. He’s even wearing cologne.

“Lydia?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you, and I figured if I waited too long, I’d talk myself out of coming.” I shift the bag higher on my shoulder. “Is it too early?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just steps aside and gestures me in. “No. Come in.”

The inside’s the same. Clinical. Every photo hung in perfect symmetry. Every surface wiped down until the light bounces. The scent of coffee floats out from the kitchen, warm, bitter, grounding. I follow him into the living room, settling on the edge of the couch. The bag stays on my lap.

“You want some coffee?” he asks over his shoulder as he heads toward the kitchen.

“No. Thanks.”

I watch as he pours himself a cup, every movement careful. Controlled. When he returns to the living room, he sits across from me in the armchair. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, coffee cupped between both hands like it might give him something he doesn’t already have.

“What’s this about?”

I unzip the bag slowly. The sound seems louder in the hush of the house. “I’ve been going through some of my father’s things. Trying to clear out old boxes from the cellar. I found some old photos. I can’t place some names and faces. I thought maybe you could help me out.”