Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Nysa
The silence lingers after Hopper leaves, pressing in from all sides, dense and unyielding. I close the door behind him and lean against it, the cold wood a steady anchor. For a brief moment while he was here, the air felt different—lighter. The barn didn’t seem so stifling, the house not quite as . . . haunted.
Now, it’s back.
The stillness.
The unease.
I push my fingers into my scalp and exhale, forcing my shoulders to loosen. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Hopper didn’t pry—thank God. He didn’t push, didn’t ask too many questions, just . . . existed in my barn like he belonged. I almost laughed when he called me out for hiding. Almost. If he knew why I left—why I came back—he wouldn’t be so casual about it.
The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I close the front door again, making sure it’s really closed. Flicking the lock twice to make sure it catches. Old habit. Old fear.
The house feels colder as I move through it, the floorboards groaning beneath my steps. My footsteps echo as I walk to the kitchen and flick on the light. It flickers once before settling. A weak, yellow glow.
The counters are bare, except for a cracked mug I left behind when I walked out three years ago. It’s still there, the faint stain of dried coffee at the bottom like it’s been waiting for me to pick it up and finish what I started.
I almost laugh at the thought. Almost.
Instead, I grab a glass from the cabinet, rinse it out in the sink, and fill it with water. The cold hits the back of my throat like a shock, grounding me for a moment. I lean against the counter and stare at the window above the sink. The reflection stares back—tired eyes, unruly hair, and the faintest tremor in my hands I wish I could ignore.
I shouldn’t have come back.
The thought sneaks in, unwelcome. It lingers, curling around my ribs and squeezing. I remind myself why I’m here, why I had no choice. My grandmother needs me. It’s probably temporary. Just until she’s healthy again.
Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the window. I glance toward the barn in the distance, its silhouette dark and still against the faint glow of the moon. Hopper’s words echo in my head. What are you so afraid of?
That night, the arms of that guy catching me. They were going to kill me, bury me next to the other body. The gunshots that almost . . . but they didn’t, I remind myself.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
The old bed creaks under my weight as I toss and turn, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Every noise feels amplified in the dark—the creak of the walls, the groan of the floorboards, the distant hum of the wind. It’s like the house is alive, remembering every moment I’ve tried to forget.
When I finally drift off, sleep is restless. Dreams of the past, fractured and vivid, pull me under only to hurl me back to the surface. I wake before dawn, breath coming fast, heart racing as if I’ve been running. The room is dim, the faintest light slipping through the curtains.
I shove back the covers and sit up, my pulse still hammering from the remnants of the dream. The room is still, too still, as if holding its breath. I push to my feet, the cool floor a jolt against my skin. A slight unsteadiness lingers as I cross to the door, my fingers grazing the handle before I pause, listening.
Nothing.
The hush of the house feels unnatural, like something waiting just out of sight.
The hallway stretches ahead, dim in the pre-dawn light. My fingertips drift along the railing as I descend, each step careful, deliberate. Sleep still tugs at the edges of my mind, but underneath it, something colder coils, something that refuses to fade.
And then I see it.
A piece of paper near the entry door.
I stop. My pulse kicks up again, not from a dream this time but from something real, something waiting for me. My breath hitches as I move forward, the sound of my own footsteps too loud in the quiet.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s—hope flares, foolish and fragile—maybe it’s a note. From Hope. A message, something small, something that makes this place feel less empty.
I bend down, pick it up, unfold it with careful fingers.
The words slash across the page in jagged, uneven handwriting.
You shouldn’t have come back.
The breath I was holding leaves in a sharp exhale. I read it again, as if the words might shift, rearrange themselves into something less menacing. They don’t. They sit there, stark against the white paper, ink bleeding into my thoughts, sinking into my skin.
A chill spreads through me.
Someone was here.
Someone knows I’m back.
Someone wants me gone.
The paper crumples in my grip as I take a step back. Then another. My mind races, pulling at possibilities, trying to piece together something that makes sense.
Hopper? No. He’s nosy, sure, but not cruel. And he—he didn’t seem like this. He seemed . . . kind.
So who?
And how do they know I’m here?
I sink onto the floor, staring at the note in my hand. A million scenarios run through my mind, none of them comforting. Was it someone from town? Someone who didn’t want me here. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. This place has secrets. It always has. But I never thought they’d come for me.
The unease from last night is back, curling low in my stomach. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady my breathing.
Think, Nysa. Think.
I can’t stay here. Not like this.
But where would I go?
Back to hiding? No. I came back for a reason, and I’m not letting some coward with a piece of paper scare me off.
A knock at the door jolts through me. My fingers go slack, and the note flutters to the floor. My breath catches. For a split second, I can’t move, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
“Nysa? You okay?”
Hopper.
Relief crashes over me so hard my legs nearly buckle. Pushing off the wall, I force myself to stand, smoothing my hands down my sides as if that will steady me. I open the door, and there he is—rumpled and half-awake, his hair tousled like he rolled out of bed five minutes ago. He holds a travel mug in one hand, the other resting against the small back of the toddler perched on his hip.
A little girl.
My stomach dips. Of course he has a kid. Of course he’s married. A man like him? Who wouldn’t marry him?
The girl blinks up at me, then gives a sleepy, toothy smile. “Hi.”
Something in me softens despite myself. She’s adorable, all wispy hair and round cheeks, her tiny fingers curling into Hopper’s shirt.
“We brought this.” He holds out the cup. “Figured you probably don’t have much stocked yet.”
I take it, my fingers brushing his, a fleeting warmth against the lingering chill in my skin. “Thanks.”
Hopper watches me, his gaze sharper now, his brows pulling together. “You look . . . tense. Everything okay?”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the cup. The crumpled note lies just behind me, a silent warning. Part of me wants to show him—to hand it over, to let him read the words and share the weight of them. But the other part, the one that’s spent years keeping people at arm’s length, won’t let me.
Not yet.
I force a smile. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
His expression says he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he nods toward the kitchen. “You mind if I take a look around? Make sure everything’s working? The place has been empty for a while. Gas lines might be faulty.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Sure. Knock yourself out. If you want, I can—” I glance at the little girl still curled against him. “Help with your daughter?”
“Maddie, her name is Maddie,” he states, then looks at her with an adoration that melts me in place and makes my ovaries explode. Can I have someone look at me like that? “Mads, do you want to go with Nysa?”
The girl shakes her head and hand hugs his neck tightly.
“No worries, we can do this together. I’m used to it,” he states.
As he moves through the house, I sip the coffee and watch him. He’s different than I remember—older, obviously, but there’s something else. A quiet confidence, maybe. Like he’s seen too much, lost too much, and he carries the pain with him.
There’s a hurt that lingers in his body. It lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers skim along the edges of furniture, the light switch, the worn banister—like he’s reacquainting himself with something familiar and yet irrevocably changed. The silence between us feels heavier than it should, thick with unsaid things.
I take a sip of the coffee. It’s perfect. The warmth does little to chase away the chill creeping up my spine. What broke him?
He pauses in the doorway to the living room, his gaze lingering on the furniture. “You are planning on staying long?”
“My grandmother is sick.” The words come out too flat, too controlled, as if saying them any other way might make them real. I shrug, setting the coffee down on the counter, watching the dark liquid ripple inside the mug. “I haven’t decided yet. It depends on her.”
Hopper doesn’t respond right away. He lingers, finishing his inspection of the kitchen, running his fingers over the faucet handle before testing the lock on the back door. He moves with the quiet assurance of someone used to fixing things, of someone who doesn’t ask if help is needed—just offers it anyway.
“Well, if you do happen to stay for long, let me know if you need anything.” His voice is calm, but there’s something else there, something unreadable. He turns to face me fully, his gaze settling on mine. Assessing. Like he’s trying to figure out what I’m not saying.
Like he doesn’t trust me. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t know if he should.
“I will,” I murmur, though I’m not sure if it’s the truth.
He studies me for another beat, then nods. “Take care, Nysa.”
Maddie, still tucked against his hip, lifts her tiny hand and waves. “Buh-bye.”
A small, unexpected warmth flickers in my chest. I manage a smile. “Bye, Maddie.”
Hopper shifts her higher, adjusts his grip, then pulls open the door. A rush of cool air drifts in, and before I can decide if I want to say anything else, he’s gone.
Just like that.
And for some reason, the house feels quieter than it did before.