Chapter 3
Two hours earlier
I’ve got the windows down, eyes fixed on the entrance to Sapphire Valley—a wooden archway stretched across the top of a security building, with metal gates on either side, standing wide open. It’s been eight months since I last came here, though it feels far longer.
Shifting my truck into drive, I roll through, entering a place I never imagined would make me feel sick to my stomach to return to. At the split, I turn right, following the lush, solitary road. Tall blue spruce trees flank me on both sides as I round the southernmost point of Sapphire Lake.
The cabin, Echo Ridge, is under construction, but it’s kept the old charm of its logwood exterior. Metal slabs and crates sit off to the right of the structure. It looks livable, though I’m not sure anyone has moved in; I don’t remember seeing any lights last Christmas.
I only started coming to Wildhart Hollow—I’ll call it just Wildhart—my stepfather’s family cabin, a year after Ayden’s high school graduation.
He worked in town as a doctor, while my mom taught at the only elementary school in Maple Falls.
Even at their age, I’d never imagined they would want to live so simply.
They were happy… suppose that’s all that matters.
It takes about ten minutes to get from the entrance to Wildhart, and as the trees thin, the quiet home comes into view.
A hollow ache settles right in my chest as I take a deep breath.
The cabin is built primarily from round, natural log timbers, topped with a pitched metal gabled roof that was replaced just a year ago. A stone chimney rises near the front—one I’m used to seeing a trail of smoke come from, fleeting into the cold air.
Windows line both levels, with two flanking the solid-wood front door.
The door sits beneath the overhanging porch roof, which wraps around the front and right side of the cabin.
On the right side, beneath the shade, sits a seating area: four loungers, a small table, and a two-person swing that was used far more often than the living room inside.
I park the truck and turn my gaze toward the lake. A dock juts out from the grassy bank. The water, unlike my fucking head, is calm. I can feel the building of a migraine, causing me to groan and quickly get out before it can fester.
Slamming the truck door, I drag myself toward the cabin’s entrance. A dozen mismatched chairs sit in a rough circle around the fire pit, positioned between the dock and the porch. From the steps to the water’s edge can’t be more than twenty feet—talk about waterfront property.
The porch boards creak under my weight, and I hear my mom’s voice in my head, teasing Grant to reinforce the structure. All jokes, of course. It’s not the fault of the wood. I’m just built like a bear—minus the fur. Aside from the curls on my head.
I was a linebacker for a reason.
I reach up to the lamp on the right, pull the spare key from its hiding spot, and unlock the door.
This place has always smelled like safety. Not an actual scent; more a feeling. A tingle in my nose, a warmth settling in my chest. I took it for granted, only coming once a year.
The living room opens straight ahead, a wall to my right lined with photos. Mine, my family’s, and the Pierce’s. I don’t look at them, and instead, keep my eyes fixed on not one particular place.
The lights are off, but the curtainless windows let sunlight flood in. Dust motes drift through the beams, some hitting harder than others. One particularly bright ray falls across the kitchen table, where a half-eaten cake sits abandoned.
I move through the space, skirting the table at the center of the room. The air is thick with different smells—stale, unmoving, and old.
As if no one has been here for years, instead of weeks.
The bundt cake under its glass dome is furred with mold. I let out a heavy, painful sigh, but it does nothing to ease the pressure in my chest.
When I lift my head, my gaze catches on a stack of mail by the counter. Even from here, I spot the gray envelope I sent three weeks ago.
Circling the table, I thumb through the pile until I can slide it free. Grant’s friend—kind enough to collect Clover after hearing the news—had also dropped off the mail. But the sight of the cake makes my jaw tighten.
Would it have killed him to throw it out? Bare fucking minimum.
Taking the envelope, I slide open the flap, and feel my pulse rise. A darker paper falls out from between the folded one I open up, but I read the letter first.
Mom,
You were right, as always.
There’s a surprise folded in this. I hope you read this letter first.
Aloha wau iā ?oe
You and Grant will have to help me find a place, and how to adjust to the colder temperatures.
Keoni
I set the envelope down and unfold the paper inside. The creases resist, sharp from being folded too long.
It’s my transfer paperwork. Maple Falls Fire Department. Effective August tenth.
Shutting my eyes, I crush the paper in my fist.
You were always right, Mom…
After taking a deep breath, I force back the dark thoughts not yet formed, before I reopen my eyes. Out the window, the forest stares back—still… endless. This place could be where I heal, or where I let myself rot.
Guilt thrashes at me, fast and hot. Like a wildfire, it’s already too far gone for me to smother.
I glance at my watch. An hour until the funeral. Enough time to clean a bit, then make it for the service. Maybe the air will clear my head before I have to say goodbye for the last time.
I can’t believe how much of an idiot I am.
How the hell did I forget the time change?
I’ve always visited in the winter. Arizona and Colorado share the same time zone until summer… I hadn’t set my watch ahead an hour.
The damn funeral was over.
I went to the church where the procession had started, but they told me it was finished and everyone had gone to the burial site. I’m surprised I wasn’t pulled over with how fast I was driving, even in my truck.
No one stands under the blue tent providing shade in the summer heat. The only people I can see are tending to the place where my mother now rests.
Or, well, her ashes.
I slam the car door, ignoring my surroundings, and head straight for the two rectangular holes.
The soft soil sinks beneath my shoes, the tips of them stopping an inch from the six-foot drop. My head shakes involuntarily, and it’s like I can hear her disappointed voice.
“Auē, Keoni. What was so important you missed my funeral?”
I’m always too late… I’m so sorry…
A warm breeze pulls a strand of hair across my face.
“You alright, son?” I slowly look up at the man approaching me. My assumption would’ve been a worker, but to my dismay, it’s a priest. “May I help you?”
Where’s your God now? Where’s any God now—
I bite my tongue not to curse out a holy man.
A few people are right behind him, and while he stops, they don’t. One of them brushes past me, and I instinctively step back. They begin removing the lowering device and straps from the grave.
I swallow and look down at the man. He eyes me cautiously, as if I might cause trouble. I get it, I’m intimidating, but I really don’t need problems right now.
Sighing while straightening my shoulders, I mutter, “No. I don’t need any help.”
I take another step back until one of the many chairs brushes against the back of my knees. Then I sit, resting my elbows on my spread legs.
For the next several hours, I just remain here while people take down the sitting area and close up the graves. They place a temporary marker between the two plots, and fuck… if I haven’t read it hundreds of times.
Grant Robert Pierce and Leilani Ann Pierce
January 31, 1969 - July 31, 2026 and April 17, 1976 - July 31, 2026.
Section C, Plot 14 & 15.
They always say once you start listening to your parents, it’s too late. I’m not saying all of them deserve that respect, but my mom absolutely did. Had I listened to her sooner, maybe she’d still be here.
I run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots and yanking it out of its bun.
“Bullshit…” I whisper. It’s so soft, I know no one can hear it over those still shuffling their feet.
They don’t come to ask me to get up so they can take the last of the chairs.
I’m left here, alone with my thoughts—a place that’s dangerous even on a good day.
Though, I’ll admit, they aren’t leading me to a dark place, one that leads down highway 17 to where my parents’ accident was.
Nor do they lead me back to my own selfish act, and self-loathing.
No, I’m tugged to thoughts of Ayden.
Not my stepsister, but my stepbrother.
I’m not even sure why I start asking myself where he is. I haven’t seen him in nearly eight years. He wouldn’t even come to Christmas—what makes me think he’d show up for a funeral? He obviously cared more about something else.
Something more important than his family…
I don’t want to be included in that. We aren’t family anymore…
Even if that thought stings.
Throwing myself back against the seat, I slump. My arms rest at my sides while I ball my hands into fists and release them. I’m bitter, and I know I shouldn’t direct it at anyone but myself.
I should cancel my transfer, see if I can’t get back with my original house in Phoenix. Being here may make me spiral, and I fear it will be too much—not just living in the space my mom spent her days in, but the constant reminder of how I’ve fucked up so many times.
I’m not sure anything can keep me from that ledge again.
Ayden…