Chapter Nineteen
Jo
Silas’s furniture, the photographs, the chipped mug Nate had used that morning. This was the last time I’d see any of it.
The air was still warm from the furnace. It was impossible to look anywhere without remembering Nate there. Nate with his hands buried in my hair while he kissed me. His smile. That deep laugh of his.
His scent lingered, maybe in my memory rather than actually on me. I hated how things had ended between us.
I checked the clock. If I left now, I’d have the dark to cover me. By dawn, I could be hours away—past the county line, past anyone who might remember me. I didn’t have a destination yet. Just a direction: away.
My father said the best way to keep your plan a secret is to create it on the fly. That method was engrained in me, despite how it hadn’t kept him safe from prison.
The mirror in the hallway caught my reflection, and for a second, I didn’t recognize myself.
Blonde hair. Green eyes. Paler skin from powder.
The faint geometric streaks near my temples—subtle adversarial marks I’d drawn with eyeliner—looked odd in lamplight but would confuse facial-recognition cameras on the highway.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would buy me time.
No one would see me for who I was. Not again.
I zipped my coat, gloves tight, and walked the rooms one last time. My hand skimmed the banister, the chair Silas had often sat in. Memories of him mixed with memories of Nate until my heart was heavy with both.
Leaving was necessary, but when I reached Silas’s office, I was filled with guilt. Silas had taken me in, kept me safe, given me a place to continue my father’s work . . . and I’d repaid that kindness by marring what he’d created for Nate.
Was Frank right? Could we have done more? When Silas had said he didn’t want his family contacted, should I have argued with him? Why hadn’t I? Because I feared being exposed?
I didn’t like what that said about me.
I could have gone against Silas’s wishes and at least invited his family to his funeral, but that also would have put me in a vulnerable position.
I didn’t know them—so their pain was acceptable, abstract collateral damage. But having met Nate? Knowing how much it would have meant to him to see Silas one last time? Not allowing him that was something I’d forever regret.
“I’m sorry, Silas,” I whispered. The words barely reached the air. “I could have handled all of it better.”
There wasn’t anything I could do to change what I’d done, but when I thought about how Nate had looked when he’d left I knew I couldn’t leave without an explanation.
I reached for a sheet of paper. The pen felt as heavy as my thoughts.
I wrote:
Nate,
I never should have said that what we shared was a mistake.
I’m not sorry for what happened between us. What we shared was real, and it was beautiful.
I can’t stay and I can’t explain why. I wish I could. But I need you to know that the anger you saw this morning wasn’t meant for you. It was frustration at myself—for wanting something I can’t have and for letting myself forget that for a night.
You should know that you didn’t hurt me. You were careful and kind in every way that mattered. It was wonderful. Every single moment with you. I’ll carry memories of you with me. Always.
Please don’t let what happened between us undo what Silas left for you. He wanted you to see the parts of him that time and pride had kept him from showing you while he was alive.
And I’m sorry I didn’t go against his wishes and contact you when he found out he had cancer. I should have. My decision not to was selfish and you’re welcome to hate me for it, because I hate that I didn’t push him to put his pride aside before it was too late.
He should have given you the chance to be there for him. He should have trusted that you would be who you proved to be—a nephew who would have loved him back.
I think he knows that now. And wherever he is, he’s proud of you—for coming back, for taking the time to see him clearly, for forgiving him.
Please don’t give up on the farm or this town. They both need you.
I wish I could say more. I can’t without putting others at risk, and I know that feels unfair. I hope you’ll understand this silence is my way of protecting someone who needs me.
Please don’t look for me. Nothing further is possible between us.
Thank you—for the laughter, for the friendship, for reminding me what it feels like to be seen and to be held.
By the time you find this, I’ll be gone.
But I’ll never forget.
Or regret.
Jo
I read it twice through. The first time, my eyes blurred. The second, I proofed my spelling. Then I folded the page in thirds and sealed it with one of Silas’s old paperclips. The metal was cold against my thumb.
I set it on the desk beneath the lamp. Knowing Nate would find it when he came back. He will be back, for the same reason I’m finding it so hard to leave.
That was enough.
“Thank you,” I whispered to Silas, to Nate, and to this place I’d been lucky enough to shelter from the storm in.
With determination and as much of a brave face as I could muster, I opened the front door and strode through it.
It clicked shut behind me. The porch motion detection light flared, then dimmed.
And once again—I was alone.