Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Nysa
Four days.
Four days of trying to convince myself this was the right move. Four days of pacing these creaky floors, scrubbing at surfaces that still feel like they belong to someone else, filling the silence with podcasts I don’t pay attention to. Four days of telling myself that the unease twisting in my stomach is just nerves.
Four days of lying.
And I still haven’t gone to town to tell my grandmother I’m home. I haven’t even texted her. Not until I know it’s safe.
The morning is dense with gray, a sky that clings too low, pressing into the trees, the house, me. I pull on my boots, grab my thermos, and step onto the porch. Thank you, Hopper Timberbridge, for the coffee maker and the coffee. That man is not only hot, but also a godsend. He’s been leaving food on my doorstep like some small-town guardian angel—leftovers, sandwiches, the occasional pastry wrapped in parchment.
Our interactions have been less . . . I haven’t seen him. It’s like he’s avoiding me. Maybe his wife isn’t happy that he’s dropping by and helping the woman next door. I’m not a threat, though. I wouldn’t look at another woman’s man. Even when he is really sexy. In another life I would give him a second glance. Confession time: I did have a crush on him in high school, but he was a senior and obviously out of my league.
But enough about Hopper. Today, I have a plan. I’m finally going to see Grandma, figure out what’s happening with her health, and decide if we need to leave. She probably needs medical attention. A center that focuses on . . . whatever she has. Maybe Boston. I know people there, people who can help. The bookstore will manage without her.
I’m almost excited—or as excited as one can be—when I see it.
I halt mid-step. My stomach drops.
The tires.
What the fuck?
The thermos slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Coffee seeps into the dirt, a slow, creeping stain. My attention is locked on the slashed rubber, all four tires ruined. The gashes are jagged, brutal. Not random. Not careless.
A laugh bubbles up, loud and humorless, scraping against my throat. Because of course. Of course. The second I try to get my footing, someone’s already there to knock me off balance.
“It’s just kids,” I mutter, crouching to get a closer look. But even as I say it, the words ring false.
No kid hiked all the way out here to do this.
The cuts are too deep. This didn’t happen by accident. My stomach tightens, the first tendrils of fear curling through my ribs. I shove the feeling down. Maybe it was a black bear, Nys. The lie is flimsy, and I know it.
My hands tremble as I pull out my phone and snap a few pictures. I’ll call the shop later, get a tow. Not like I can drive the damn thing anywhere now.
The screen reflects my face back at me—pale, drawn, eyes shadowed from nights spent staring at the ceiling, rereading Grandma’s text. I’m sick, you should come home. That’s all it said. Of course I had to come. I can’t lose the only family I have left.
I straighten, brushing dirt off my palms, and turn back toward the house. The porch steps creak beneath my boots. My mind is already moving ahead, listing everything I need to do, everything I need to figure out?—
That’s when I see it . A handprint smudged across the railing, smeared dark red against the peeling white paint.
I go still, breath locking in my throat.
No.
It’s paint. It has to be paint. Someone’s idea of a joke, a stupid prank meant to get under my skin. But when I step closer, the smell hits me—coppery, raw.
Blood.
My pulse kicks up, hammering in my ears. The fingers are clearly defined, streaked like someone wiped their hand in it before pressing it to the wood. Like they wanted me to see it. A slow, sickening crawl of dread moves through me. My throat is dry. My skin feels too tight. I press a hand to my stomach, willing myself to breathe.
“It’s fine,” I whisper, but the words waver, shaky and weak. “It’s . . . it’s fine.”
But it’s not fine.
It’s not kids messing around. It’s not black bears slashing rubber.
Someone knows I’m here and is scaring me before they come to kill me. This time they might not fail. This time I might not be able to run away.
I stare at the tires, my pulse hammering so fast it drowns out the wind rustling through the trees. Maybe tonight is the night.
No tires. No truck. No way to run.
A crunch of gravel pulls me from the thought, and I whip around, my breath locking in my throat. A black truck—not Hopper’s—rolls up the drive, its engine low and steady, a sheriff’s emblem gleaming on the side.
Malerick Timberbridge steps out.
He’s taller than I remember, broad-shouldered and built like a man who’s spent years making sure people listen when he talks. His uniform fits like it belongs on him, the badge pinned to his chest catching the dull light. He takes his time scanning the yard—the truck, the porch, and finally me. His eyes, the same blue as his brother’s but far less forgiving, settle on the bloody handprint.
“Well, this isn’t how I expected us to meet, Ms. Calloway.” His voice is measured, but there’s something sharp beneath it. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
I cross my arms, feigning indifference, even as my stomach churns. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His gaze flicks back to the slashed tires, then returns to me, unimpressed. “Four slashed tires and a bloody handprint say otherwise.”
I don’t respond. My jaw tightens.
He exhales, pulls off his hat, and drags a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Look, I’m not here to play games,” he says, tone shifting, smoothing into something quieter. “My brother called me two days ago. Said you might be in trouble. I went through your file—you disappeared a little over three years ago. No trace. The house untouched except for your room—ransacked, like someone was searching for something. But nothing was stolen.”
My stomach knots, but I school my expression. Of course he went through the missing people report my grandmother filed before I contacted her. Of course he knows.
“I spoke to Delilah,” he says, mentioning one of my closest friends. “And Mrs. Harper. People remember when someone vanishes into thin air.” He pauses, his eyes sharp as he watches me. “It surprised me that your grandmother isn’t concerned, though. She said you’d find your way back when you were ready. That’s why the last sheriff stopped looking—she convinced him you were safe. Her heart knew it.”
I almost laugh. That old woman can spin a tale out of thin air. She was always good at persuading my grandfather to go along with whatever plan she cooked up.
“Well, my heart finally told me to come back,” I say, keeping my face neutral.
Malerick nods, but he’s not fooled. “Here’s the thing, Ms. Calloway. Your grandmother has been receiving texts from you almost since you left.”
My breath stills.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, too innocently, too quickly.
He tilts his head slightly, reading me like an open book. “I’ve done my homework. I have receipts for those texts and the actual texts themselves. Even when you changed numbers, you communicated with her up until two weeks ago. So let’s cut the shit. What happened that made you leave?”
“Nothing,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
He studies me, his expression giving nothing away. Then, stepping onto the porch, he turns back to the handprint. He doesn’t touch it, but he looks at it the way someone studies a puzzle, searching for the missing pieces.
“This isn’t random,” he murmurs. “And we both know it.”
My arms tighten around myself. Stop reacting. Stop letting him see. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want the truth,” he says simply, voice firm but not unkind. “Why did you leave in the middle of the night three years ago? And why are you back now?”
I take a step back, shaking my head. “That’s none of your business.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It is if it’s bringing trouble to my town . I can’t afford this right now. We have too much happening already.”
His town. I don’t like the words, but what I really hate is the: “We have too much happening already.” What is happening? This is a small town. The most that can happen is someone stealing the signs for the festivals or . . . well gossip. There’s always good gossip flying around. My grandmother told me something about his younger brother, Ledger, getting married. The Doherty Mansion caught fire. Those are the headlines in this place.
“Why do you even care?” I snap.
“Because I saw the report.” His voice is even, unreadable. “From the old sheriff. The one you filed before you disappeared. There’s a lot more than you leaving that night.”
Cold creeps into my chest.
“That’s not?—”
“Don’t lie to me, Nysa,” he cuts through my words like a blade. “I know something happened. Bullets, broken windows, blood. And until you tell me what, I can’t help you.”
“I’m not hiding anything.” My voice wavers.
He crosses his arms. “Then why did you run?”
I hesitate, the truth pressing against my ribs. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“I had my reasons,” I force the words out.
Malerick exhales, frustrated but patient. Instead of pushing, he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the handprint, then taps the screen several times, muttering under his breath.
“A team will be here soon to sweep the place,” he says, shifting back into business mode. “In the meantime, I’m driving you to your grandmother’s. Or next door to my brother’s. Pick one.”
I straighten. “I’m staying here.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I won’t bring danger to my grandmother. Or your brother.”
His mouth quirks, but there’s no humor in it. “So you do admit you’re in danger.”
“That’s not?—”
“Then I’ll take you next door with my niece. She’ll be safe with you, won’t she?”
His words are bait. I know it. But still, I flinch.
“Whatever you’re running from, it’s not going to stay buried forever.” His voice lowers. “You know that, right?”
I do know that. I’ve known it since the moment I stepped foot back in this town. I just didn’t expect things to unravel so fast. I was hoping I would be able to leave with Grandma before anyone would notice.
“Maybe I should just leave,” I whisper.
He glances at the slashed tires. “Can you?”
“I’ll have someone fix them?—”
“You can’t run forever,” he says, tone softer now. “What happened to you?”
Nothing. Everything. Probably just enough.
I close my eyes, inhale slow, exhale slower. Then, finally, I tell him. Enough for him to swear under his breath.
“Where?” His voice is rough now, all business. “Where in the perimeter did you see them bury the body?”
I shake my head. “I don’t remember. It was three years ago.”
“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ll send a team out anyway. You—” He gestures at the house. “You pack. We need to figure out what to do with you.”
“I can leave?—”
“No, you can’t.”
Frustration rises hot in my chest, and for the first time in years, my eyes burn. I do not cry. I refuse. But my throat tightens, my vision blurs, and I know he sees it.
The sound of another truck rumbles up the drive, and suddenly, Hopper is there, climbing out, Maddie in his arms.
The second I see them, the fight leaves me.
Hopper’s gaze sweeps over me, then flicks to Malerick. He takes one look at my face, my shaking hands, and his own expression shifts—concern settling deep in his features.
Without a word, he hands Maddie to Malerick and reaches for me.
I don’t mean to move.
I don’t mean to lean into him, to let the warmth of his body sink past the walls I’ve fought to keep standing.
But my feet betray me. My body betrays me.
And when his arms wrap around me—strong, certain, unrelenting—I break. A sob tears free, raw and aching, spilling from a place so buried I thought it was long gone.
Because after three years of running, three years of slipping through life without leaving a trace, this is the first time someone else has felt real.
And I don’t know if I can hold on to that without falling apart.