Chapter 2 #2
I slip a battered paperback between the neatly folded clothes. Mystery novel. Cover frayed, spine softened from too many rereads. No one knows I keep it. It doesn’t belong to the orderly accountant persona. But late at night, when sleep won’t come and memories won’t leave, it helps.
The succulent I brought home from the office sits on the counter, still angled toward the window, leaves glossy under the lamplight. I debate bringing it, then shake my head. I water it once more anyway, then carry it down the hall.
Mrs. Worthington, my neighbor, answers her door in curlers and a robe patterned with dancing lobsters. She peers over her glasses at me. “You look like you’re heading to war.”
“Nope, just Montana,” I correct. “Might be worse.”
She cackles, pats my cheek, and takes the plant from me like it’s a newborn. “I’ll take care of him. Don’t you worry.”
“Thanks again.”
When I get back to my apartment, I leave her a note anyway, taped to my door: No parties. And a smiley face. I know it would never cross her mind, but I’ve known her long enough to know she’ll find it funny and text me with a party meme.
By the time I double-check every lock, the duffel strap digs comfortably into my shoulder. Everything in its place. Except me.
I glance once more at the neat apartment, each line sharp under the overhead light. It’s orderly and predictable, and I have a feeling I’m about to walk into anything but organized.
On the curb outside, the city hums—tires hissing over wet pavement against the early morning dark. Tomorrow, it’ll be mountains instead of skyscrapers. Dust instead of sidewalks.
And her. Milly Thomas.
The name in Penny’s letter holds a responsibility that the maps in my bag won’t fix. I don’t know her. I don’t want to. But Penny trusted me, and I don’t ignore last wishes. Not when they come written in purple ink and sealed with guilt I can’t shake.
I square my shoulders, check the strap of the duffel again, and step into the Denver morning.
The rental car waits for me at the curb of my apartment. I load my duffel into the trunk and start off on my mission. I come to Milly’s apartment complex just as dawn breaks over Denver. My duffel sits squarely in the trunk, straps tucked flat. Mission-ready.
And then Milly Thomas barrels into view, and the mission shifts before it even begins.
She’s wrangling luggage that looks determined to escape her grasp—suitcases stacked precariously, a garment bag sliding sideways, a tote sprouting sticky notes like it’s molting. A battered crate labeled Pumpernickel rests at her feet.
She looks up, auburn hair tumbling into her face. She tucks it behind her ear with a quick, unthinking gesture—and I freeze for half a beat. Not regulation. Definitely not on the checklist. But there it is: a spark I didn’t plan for.
“Morning,” I manage.
Her eyes are green and bright. “You must be Austin. Penny’s Numbers Man.”
Numbers Man. Not Protector, huh? Penny must have kept that card close to her chest.
“That’s me,” I say evenly.
She grins, unbothered. “Don’t worry about the title, Numbers Man. She called me Chaos Coordinator once. Which is funny, because I coordinate things beautifully.” She laughs under her breath. “Until they collapse.”
Right on cue, one of her tote straps snaps. Notebooks scatter across the sidewalk. She kneels quickly, scooping them into a neat stack despite the chaos, muttering something about karma and fate having it out for her today. I doubt it was just karma or fate. Or just today.
I crouch and pick up a highlighter. Yellow.
She reaches for it at the same time. Our fingers brush. The touch is nothing, ordinary—but it jolts like static. Her hand is warm. Mine lingers a moment too long.
“Thanks,” she says, slipping it into a pouch already bulging with highlighters.
We load her mountain of bags into the trunk together. It takes a bit because Milly narrates the process like we’re hosting a game show. One bag is labeled “Critical Ops,” which is full of veterinary handbooks; another, labeled “Purely Boots.”
“Three pairs,” I note, tightening a strap.
“Variety is essential,” she counters with a shrug.
The hedgehog, Pumpernickel, puffs from his crate, apparently unimpressed.
By the time the trunk closes, the car sags a little under the weight. We slide inside, she’s juggling the crate on her lap, and I’m double-checking my laminated checklist.
She notices. “Is that laminated?”
“Yes.”
She laughs softly. “Penny wasn’t kidding. You really are the Numbers Man.”
Her tone is light, but it already feels like she knows me better than she thinks. I glance at the mirror, and that’s when I catch it: a black SUV, two cars back, idling where it doesn’t need to idle. My gut tightens. It pulled in behind us outside her place. Still here.
I keep my expression neutral, eyes on the road, and file it away for later.
Milly fusses with her playlist, the screen flashing Adventure Awaits: Volume 1. The first chords of some upbeat anthem fill the car as downtown Denver fades behind us.
“So,” she says brightly, “Everwood. Small town. Big sky. I’ve never been to Montana. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen a goat?”
“Yes.”
“Do they really eat everything?”
“Yes.”
She beams, delighted by my monotone. She is definitely Penny’s relation—unfounded sense of optimism, bright and happy. A branch off the old tree.
The black SUV keeps pace with us as we head toward the airport. I grip the wheel, running silent calculations. Risk factors. Contingencies. Protecting Milly may not be on her list—but it’s on mine.
She leans back against the seat, humming along to her playlist, oblivious to the shadow following us.
For the first time since Penny’s letter was hand-delivered, I’m not entirely sure this mission is just about protecting her. Milly might have not only inherited a property, but Penny’s ghosts as well.