I sat on the edge of my bed, my elbows resting on my knees, staring at the wall as if it held some kind of answer. My phone still glowed faintly on the nightstand, a reminder of the call with Jesse, the conversations still ringing in my ears.I didn’t move for what felt like hours. My hands twitched every time I remembered that conversation,the shouting, the accusations, the frustration. But worse than that was the memory of the explosion. I tried not to let it claw back into me, tried not to let it sink me under.And then…Knock. Knock. Knock.I froze.At first, I thought it was the wind. But no, the sound came again, deliberate. Three firm raps at the door. My stomach tightened.Who would be here this late? Who knew where I was?I slowly rose, every muscle tense. My gun was already in my hand before I even realized I had picked it up. Heart hammering, I walked toward the door.“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice steadier than I felt.A pause. Then a familiar voice.“It’s… me. M

My mother was a fighter.Not the kind that throws punches or raises her voice. She didn’t need to. She fought in smaller ways, ways that mattered. With patience. With stubborn love. With that quiet refusal to back down when something involved me.I remember one time when I was twelve. I’d gotten into trouble at school for fighting a boy bigger than me. The school wanted to suspend me. Said I was violent. Said I was a problem waiting to grow teeth.My mother didn’t shout at the principal. She didn’t cry. She sat there calmly while they talked over her like she wasn’t even in the room. When they were done, she smiled and asked one simple question.“Did you ask why he fought back?”They hadn’t.She stayed there for almost two hours. Told them everything. About the bullying. About the bruises I’d hidden. About how a boy doesn’t become angry for no reason. When we left, the suspension was gone. The other boy was transferred. And my mother squeezed my hand like she’d just won something impo

Tommy was restless the entire drive back from the vet.He sat on the passenger seat with his cone tilted slightly to one side, breathing slowly but alert, his eyes tracking everything outside the window like he didn’t trust the world yet. I didn’t blame him. Neither did I.The vet said he’d be fine. A few stitches. Pain meds. Lots of rest. No permanent damage.He said he was lucky.I pulled into the gravel lot outside my cabin just as the sun dipped low enough to bleed orange across the trees.That was when I saw the car.A white Cadillac, clean to the point of arrogance, parked neatly beside my place like it belonged there. It looked wildly out of place against the dirt road and the pine needles.And leaning against it, hands folded loosely in front of him, was Reverend Paul Goodchild.Of course it was.I cut the engine and sat there for a second, watching him through the windshield. He didn’t wave. Didn’t move. Just waited, calm as a man who believed time answered to him.“What does

I didn’t sleep much that night.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw files disappearing. Logs rewriting themselves. A little girl whispering words she was too young to understand.“You don’t belong in the circle.”By morning, I knew where I had to go.Mrs. Collins.Abby Collins’ mother.She was the one who reached out to me. And then as if possessed by a force, she just left without warning. Her phone buzzed when she was about to show me the credit alert.She’d gone pale.And she’d left without saying goodbye.So I drove to her house.Mrs. Collins lived on the edge of town, where the neat streets gave way to thinner roads and wider spaces. Her house was small but well-kept. White siding. Blue shutters. Wind chimes hanging from the porch.I parked across the street and watched for a moment. The curtains were drawn. No lights on. Her car was in the driveway.I walked up and knocked.Nothing.I knocked again.After a few seconds, I heard movement. The door opened just enough for her fac

I stared at the photos again. This was insane.“This is bullshit,” I said. “They asked to speak to me.”“Did they?” Riker asked lightly, like he was discussing the weather.“Yes,” I snapped. “They reached out. And I don’t even need to tell you that, because I know you and your people know every fucking thing that goes on in this town.”Riker’s jaw tightened.“Hey, careful,” he said. “Speaking maliciously and pointing accusing fingers is something we don’t take lightly around here.”I looked at him sharply. “By who?”He shrugged. “That’s not what matters.”“It matters to me.”He folded his hands on the desk, calm as ever. “What matters is that multiple citizens have expressed concern about your conduct.”“My conduct?” I laughed. “I asked questions.”“You frightened them,” he said. “You made accusations. You suggested corruption, and they felt threatened.”“Because there is corruption.” I said.He smiled thinly. “That’s your opinion.”I leaned forward, resting my hands on the edge of hi