Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The highway hummed under my tires, the kind of steady white noise that made it too easy to think.
Maurice’s directions sat folded on the passenger seat, even though I’d already memorized them. Out past Knoxville, hang a right at the second blinking light, gravel road by the busted Co-Op sign, follow it till the pavement dies. Real welcoming stuff.
I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel and tried not to poke at the sore spot wrapping my ribs. Dumb idea to come out here. Dumber idea not to.
The dashboard clock glowed past nine. Exactly one week since the barbecue at Trenda and Simon’s. Exactly one week since Drake Avery cornered me like a damn therapist in a ball cap.
I snorted under my breath.
Drake and I went way back. I’d known him when we were all kids and he’d been the older boy Zoe and Chloe both thought was some kind of superhero. Then he’d left, gone dark, gone SEAL.
Eight years ago he’d come back to Jasper Creek, older, quieter and deadlier, with scores to settle. It was a powder keg, that eventually got Chloe caught up in the cross-hairs. A couple of years ago he’d gone and added a psychology degree on top of “I can kill you six ways with a spoon.”
Overachiever.
At the barbecue he hadn’t come at me guns blazing. That wasn’t his way anymore. No, he’d waited until the burgers were flipped, the kids were shrieking in the tree, and Chloe was laughing with her sisters over by the picnic table in that damn orange dress that wouldn’t leave my brain.
I’d been standing near the cooler, pretending to debate between water and soda like either one mattered, when Drake sidled up beside me.
“How’s work?” he’d asked, casual as you please, grabbing a bottle without looking.
“Light duty,” I’d said. “Cap’s got me riding the box with Fletcher for at least another week. Paperwork, EMT stuff, no interior until the ribs stop bitching.”
Drake had nodded, taking a swig. “You like riding with Fletcher?”
“He’s solid,” I’d admitted. “Good instincts. Keeps his head when things get messy.” I’d shrugged. “Talks too much about fantasy football, but nobody’s perfect.”
Drake’s mouth had twitched. “He says you’re good with kids,” he’d said.
I’d frowned. “What?”
“Fletcher,” he’d said. “He was telling Zoe the other day that you’re ‘weirdly calm’ with pediatric calls. Said you’re the guy he wants if there’s a scared parent on scene.”
I’d grunted, uncomfortable. Compliments never sat right. “Somebody’s got to keep it together. Parents see panic, they panic harder. That doesn’t help anybody.”
“Right,” Drake had said thoughtfully. He’d taken another sip, eyes on the chaos in the yard. “How’s Chloe doing?”
There it was.
I’d stiffened, shoulders tightening under my T-shirt. “You’d have to ask her.”
“I did,” he’d said mildly. “I’m asking you too.”
I’d wanted to brush him off. Tell him I didn’t know, that she was fine, that it wasn’t his business. But Drake had this way of looking at you like he could see the story unspooling under your skin, and lying felt pointless.
“She’s… showing up,” I’d said finally. “She’s in therapy. She’s working. She’s taking care of herself.”
He’d hummed like he was taking notes in his head. “She looked good today,” he’d said. “Strong.”
“Yeah,” I’d said, something tight and painful catching in my chest. “She did.”
He’d let that sit for a beat. Then: “How do you feel when you see her with the kids?”
I’d blinked. “What?”
He’d gestured with his bottle toward where Chloe was bent over to help Zephyr wash sticky hands at the hose, Holden tugging on her arm, Bella shouting something from halfway up the tree.
“When she’s with them,” Drake had said. “What hits you first? Guilt? Grief? Relief? Hope?”
It had taken me a second to realize what he’d done. Sneaky bastard. Started with work, slid to Fletcher, then to kids, then to Chloe. Bypassed all my usual defenses like he’d been mapping them for years.
I’d watched Chloe laugh as Zephyr sprayed water everywhere. I’d watched her dodge, her dress flaring, her face soft in a way I hadn’t seen in months.
“Honestly?” I’d said slowly. “First thing that hits is… she looks okay. Better. Gorgeous. Then it hits that I’m not the one who helped her get there.” My throat had felt raw. “Then it’s… relief. That she can still be happy. Even if it’s not with me.”
Drake had studied me in profile. “You know she doesn’t see it that way,” he’d said. “She doesn’t put ‘with or without you’ as the measure of her happiness. She loves you. That’s not in question.”
“Doesn’t change the shit I’ve done,” I’d muttered.
“No,” he’d agreed quietly. “But it changes how you move forward.” He’d tipped his bottle toward the tree. “You noticing her joy is good. Better than you staying locked in your own head.”
I’d frowned. “You here as her brother or as the shrink?”
“Both,” he’d said easily. “I’m also here as the guy who likes you and doesn’t want to see you drown.
” He’d clapped a hand on my shoulder, squeezed once.
“Check in with yourself sometimes, Zerek. Not just ‘how am I doing,’ but ‘how is she doing’ in your mind. You’ve been staring at your own pain so long you’re missing half the picture. ”
At the time, I’d shrugged him off, made some joke about him charging by the hour.
Now, in the truck a week later, I realized exactly how much he’d gotten past my guard.
“Sneaky son of a bitch,” I muttered, turning off onto the smaller road. Gravel crunched under my truck’s tires.
He’d made me get out of my own head for ten whole minutes. Made me admit that when I looked at Chloe now, I saw more than the wreckage. I saw light coming back into her eyes. I saw strength that had nothing to do with me.
I blew out a breath, rolling my shoulders to shake off the memory.
Being on medic duty all week hadn’t been as bad as I’d expected, either. Fletcher was a good partner — mid-twenties, solid, the kind of guy who’d crack a dad joke over a blood pressure cuff just to see if a patient was still tracking.
On the last shift we had, we’d caught a call out to a playground on the edge of town. Three-year-old, possible head injury. When we’d pulled up, the scene had been textbook chaos — mom sobbing, other parents hovering, kid screaming on the mulch.
Little girl, pigtails tangled, blood matting her hair where she’d clipped the edge of a low climbing wall and split her scalp. Not life-threatening, but that much blood on that small a head? Of course, her mom thought she was dying.
“She fell— she just fell, I only turned away for a second—” the mom had gasped, voice going high and thin.
I’d dropped to a knee in the mulch, gloves on, voice calm. “Hey, I’ve got her,” I said to the mom. “She’s okay. There’s a lot of blood because scalps are drama queens, all right?”
The little girl had locked onto my face, hiccupping between wails. “Hurts,” she’d sobbed.
“I bet it does,” I’d said. “You know what that means?” I’d leaned closer, stage-whispering. “It means your brain is still in there. If it fell out, you wouldn’t feel a thing.”
She’d blinked at me, crying hiccups stuttering to a confused stop. Fletcher had shot me a look over her head that was half amused, half horrified.
“Can’t argue with the science,” he’d muttered, handing me gauze.
By the time we’d had the wound dressed and the girl on the stretcher for a precautionary ride, the mom’s breathing had evened out. She’d kept one hand on her daughter’s leg the whole time.
“Is she really okay?” she’d asked, eyes wet and wild.
“She’s going to be fine,” I’d said, meaning it. “Couple of stitches, big bandage, huge story to tell at preschool. That’s it.”
Watching them in the back of the rig — kid calming, mom finally smiling weakly — something inside me had shifted. Just a fraction. A reminder that not every kid call ended in sirens and silence. That sometimes you got to deliver good news.
Drake would probably have a field day with that realization. “See?” he’d say. “Protective instincts, still online.” Smug bastard.
My truck’s headlights swept across a rusted sign, snapping me back to the present.
CO-OP AUCTION – CLOSED, the faded letters read. Below that, an arrow pointed down a dirt drive someone had half-heartedly graveled a decade ago.
I turned in.
The old livestock auction barn loomed out of the dark.
Long low building, metal roof going dull with age, sliding doors hanging crooked on their tracks.
A few trucks and beat-up sedans were parked haphazardly out front, forming a rough semicircle.
But there were also three luxury cars. Two Escalades, a Range Rover and a tricked out Ford 350 that probably cost more than the Escalades.
Light bled out from around the doors, yellow and weak.
Of course, Maurice had picked a place already set up for a ring and seating. Why build if you can repurpose other people’s ghosts?
I killed the engine, sat for a second with my hands on the wheel, and listened to the night.
Nothing but distant crickets and the faint thump of bass from inside.
“Too late to turn around now,” I told myself.
My ribs twinged when I slid out of the truck. The air smelled like dust, old hay, and cigarette smoke.
Inside, the big open space had been reconfigured. Where cattle once shuffled through pens and up chutes, there was now a rough square of canvas taped down over concrete — a ring without ropes. Portable floodlights on stands lit the center, leaving the edges of the barn in shadow.
Metal bleachers lined the sides, already peppered with people — men mostly, some in work boots and Carhartts, some in button-downs that tried too hard. A few women clustered together, eyes bright, phones ready. The hum of conversation echoed in the rafters.
Maurice stood near the ring, talking to a short, wiry guy in a tank top. He saw me before I reached him, a slow snake smile curling up his cheeks.
“Post,” he said, spreading his arms like we were long-lost buddies. “Right on time.”
“Like I told you,” I said. “I show when I say I will.”