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"Sorry," she muttered, snatching the device up, her fingers brushing against his as she did so. The screen lit up with her aunt's name. Her brow creased, puzzled. She stood abruptly, the chair screeching in protest beneath her.
"Everything okay?" Ethan's voice cut through her fog of surprise, tinged with concern.
"Um, I don't know." She tapped the message open, eyes scanning the terse words. "She never texts..."
"Family stuff?" He leaned forward, elbows on knees, face serious but voice soft, gentle.
"Maybe," she replied absently, still trying to decode the urgency in her aunt's digital plea.
Her hand hovered over the reply button, but something pulled at her—a tide of gratitude, a surge of something warm and reckless. Without a word, she stepped towards Ethan, closed the distance, and pressed her lips briefly to his cheek. His stubble grazed her skin, a brief shock of rough against smooth.
"Adrenaline," she whispered, almost to herself, an explanation hanging between them.
"Adrenaline," he repeated, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
She backed away, the warmth of the moment already retreating as she pocketed her phone. "I've got to go check this out."
"Be careful," Ethan said, his voice firm, as if his words could shield her.
"I'll try," she tossed back with a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, already turning toward the door. Her mind raced ahead to her aunt, to the unknown reasons behind the sudden contact.
The text had simply read:
He's dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The crunch of gravel under her boots felt louder than thunder as Rachel approached the weathered log cabin nestled among towering pines. The air carried the tang of pine resin and the earthy musk of undisturbed wilderness, with each breath sharpening the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her chest.
Sheriff Dawes was a dark silhouette against the fading light, his stance firm, shovel in hand, as if he were the final guardian of the secrets the cabin held. She could feel his eyes on her, their weight like an unspoken challenge. The shovel... Why was he carrying a shovel?
"Evenin', Rachel," came his gruff voice, barely carrying over the whispering trees. His presence here was an omen, a harbinger of truths buried deep beneath the soil of her family’s history.
"Evening, Sheriff," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor she felt inside.
She allowed herself a moment to study Aunt Sarah's abode—the embodiment of seclusion. The log cabin, with its rough-hewn logs stained by time and weather, stood stoically, its chimney stack puffing out a thin trail of smoke that seemed to meld with the encroaching dusk. Its windows glowed warmly, but their light couldn’t pierce the thick veil of mystery that wrapped around the place like a shroud.
Aunt Sarah had chosen isolation, a place where whispers of civilization couldn't reach. Rachel understood now it wasn't just the allure of solitude—it was a fortress, a stronghold against a world that had once betrayed her.
The wooden porch creaked a greeting as she stepped onto it, and she saw the etchings in the doorframe—marks from a past life, each a silent witness to what had transpired within these walls. She reached for the door handle, cool and unyielding, and paused.
"Expecting trouble, Sheriff?" Her voice cut through the silence like the blade of the shovel he held might cut through the earth.
"Trouble tends to find places like this," he said, his tone not quite meeting his words. It was a dance they both knew well—the careful sidestep around the truth.
"Or maybe it's just looking for a place to hide," she suggested, her heart pounding in her ears.
"Could be," he conceded with a nod, then turned to gaze out at the dense forest that cocooned them from the world. "Could very well be."
Rachel's hand closed around the doorknob, the cold metal pushing back against her warmth. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving behind the sheriff and the quiet promise of the woods. The scent of burning cedar greeted her, wrapping her in the rustic charm of Aunt Sarah's world.
The crackling of the fire seeped into Rachel’s consciousness as she crossed the threshold. She was ensnared by the cabin's intimate embrace, the air heavy with the musk of pine sap and earth. Her eyes darted, seeking her Aunt, but another thought snagged her attention. Sheriff Dawes, his figure retreating outside the window, a shadow slipping away into the wilderness.
"Wait," she murmured, more to herself than anyone present. Urgency clawed at her chest, and she spun on her heel, a sudden burst propelling her back towards the door. "Sheriff!"
The shovel...
He's dead.
