Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Nysa
Today is my third day living in Hopper’s house.
A part of me wants to stay here forever, wrapped in the warmth of this place, where the coffee is always fresh, where Maddie’s little giggles fill the kitchen, where Hopper moves through the world like he was built for it—strong, capable, steady.
The other part of me wants to run.
Before I get too comfortable.
Before I start believing I belong here.
Before I fall in love with him and his precious daughter.
Sunlight filters through the kitchen windows, catching the tiny specks of flour floating in the air as I mix pancake batter. The scent of butter lingers from the first batch, warm and rich. Maddie sits at the table in her pajamas, her curls wild from sleep, chubby fingers clinging to her stuffed pony.
“Lala wants pancakes,” she says, swinging her legs, her voice still thick with sleep.
I smile, pouring the batter onto the hot skillet. “Does Lala eat anything else? Maybe some scrambled eggs?”
She scrunches up her nose, thinking hard. Then shakes her head. “Nope. Just pancakes. And sywup.”
“Well, Lala has great taste,” I say, flipping the pancake. The sizzle fills the quiet kitchen, mixing with the soft clinking of Maddie’s spoon as she stirs the milk in her little cup.
Outside, Hopper is with the horses, checking on the one we saved last night. The poor thing could barely stand when they pulled him from a burning barn two towns over. Hopper worked through the night, his hands steady, his voice low and calm as he treated the burns and wrapped his legs. The way he spoke to the horse, like he could will him to keep fighting, did something to me—something I don’t want to name.
Maddie stretches her arms out wide. “I wanna hug the horsy.”
I glance at her, smiling. “He’s still sore, baby. But maybe later, when he feels better.”
She slumps, resting her cheek on the table. “I be gentle.”
“I know you will,” I say, plating the pancake and setting it in front of her. “But he needs rest, just like you do when you don’t feel good.”
Maddie picks at the pancake, humming to herself. “Daddy make him all better?”
I glance out the window, watching Hopper move through the pasture, his broad shoulders relaxed but purposeful.
“He’s trying,” I say softly.
And just like that, the ache in my chest returns, creeping in like an old wound that never quite healed. Because if I stay here too long, I might not want to leave at all.
The thought barely settles before the door opens, Malerick striding in with purpose, Hopper right behind him. There’s no pretense, no soft lead-in—Malerick doesn’t waste time sugarcoating anything.
I’m standing in Hopper’s kitchen, my arms crossed over my chest, trying not to let my nerves show. Malerick leans against the counter, his expression grim. There’s a stiffness in his posture, a tension that matches the heaviness of his words.
“The land’s been used,” he says, his tone flat but edged with frustration. “Not just once, Nysa. Multiple times. It looks like they’ve been coming back, probably since you left the house unattended.”
My stomach twists, and I grip the edge of the counter for support. “Used for what?”
His lips press into a thin line, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Human remains. Burials. We found one, but the way things are looking, it’s not going to be the last.”
The room spins for a second, and I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay upright. “On my land?”
Malerick nods. “On yours. But there’s enough overlap with Hopper’s property that we’re going to have to go through both. The areas are remote, hard to monitor, which makes them perfect for . . . this.”
He waves a hand vaguely, but I know what he means. My land—my home—is being used as a dumping ground for bodies.
I want to scream, to cry, to grab something and throw it, but all I can do is stand there, my nails digging into the counter as I try to process what he’s saying.
“So, what now?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“We’re bringing in a team,” Malerick says. “Specialized equipment, dogs, the whole nine yards. It’s going to take time to comb through the area, but we need to make sure there’s nothing else out there.”
I nod slowly, the words settling over me like a suffocating blanket. “And me? Where am I supposed to go while all of this is happening?”
Malerick exchanges a glance with Hopper, who’s been sitting silently at the kitchen table, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
“We talked about it,” Malerick says carefully. “And for now, Hopper’s going to be staying at our old place—my mother’s home. It’s secure, and it gives us room to work without worrying about keeping the immediate area clear.”
I glance at Hopper, who looks up at me, his expression unreadable. Why am I not going with him?
“What about me?”
“You’ve got two options,” Malerick says, crossing his arms. “You can stay with your grandmother. We’ll make sure there’s security in place if you choose that. Or—” He hesitates, his eyes flicking between Hopper and me. “You can go with Hopper to the Timberbridge property. It’s your call.”
My instinct is to follow them, to stay close to where things are happening, but the thought of being around Hopper and Maddie any longer makes my heart ache in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.
And that’s the problem.
I’m too comfortable here. Too settled. And it’s dangerous.
“I’ll go to my grandmother’s,” I say quickly, before I can change my mind. “It’s time to say hello. Though will she be safe if I’m around her?”
Malerick nods, like he was expecting that. Hopper, though, frowns slightly, his jaw tightening.
“She’ll be perfectly fine, but are you sure?” he asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s better this way. Besides, I need to check on my grandmother. She’s supposedly sick.”
Malerick frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Hopper doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue.
Packing my things takes less time than I expect, which makes sense considering I didn’t have much to begin with. Hopper watches from the doorway of the guest room as I fold the last of my clothes into a bag.
“You don’t have to go, you know,” he says after a long moment.
I glance up at him, my chest tightening again. “I think I do.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
Because I like it here. Because Maddie’s laughter makes me forget how much my life has fallen apart. Because the way you look at me makes me feel like I could be something more than a broken, scared woman running from her past.
Because I want you to kiss me, you idiot.
But I don’t say any of that.
“It’s just . . . better this way,” I say instead, zipping up the bag and slinging it over my shoulder.
Hopper steps aside as I walk past him, but his eyes stay on me, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m not saying.
Malerick drives me to my grandmother’s house, his truck rumbling steadily down the road. He doesn’t say much, which I’m grateful for. I don’t think I could handle a conversation right now.
When we pull up to the small, white house with its neatly trimmed hedges and flower-filled window boxes, my grandmother is already waiting on the porch. She looks smaller than I remember, her frame stooped slightly with age, but her smile is as warm as ever.
The air inside my grandmother’s house is warm, filled with the familiar scent of lavender and cookies she must have baked earlier. Even after all these years, nothing about it has changed—the wooden floors creak in the same places, the old clock on the wall ticks steadily, and the soft floral curtains sway with the breeze coming through the open window.
It’s like stepping back in time, like I never left.
But I did.
I follow her down the hallway, my fingers grazing the wall as I pass the framed photos that have hung there for as long as I can remember. There’s one of my parents on their wedding day, my dad’s hand resting protectively on my mom’s waist. Another of my brother at eight years old, missing his front teeth, grinning up at the camera like the world belonged to him.
I look away before the ache in my chest can deepen.
We stop at the door to my old bedroom, and my grandmother squeezes my shoulder gently.
“Get some rest, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “Later you can come with me to the bookstore. We’ll have a long conversation.”
I nod, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind me.
The room is smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’m the one who’s bigger now. The twin bed is still against the far wall, covered in the same faded quilt my grandmother made when I was a kid. My old bookshelf sits in the corner, filled with books I once loved, their spines worn from too many rereads.
And then there’s the picture.
It’s the first thing I notice when I sit on the bed—the silver-framed photo on my nightstand, exactly where I left it years ago.
My family.
Frozen in time.
My mom’s dark auburn hair falling over her shoulders as she leans into my dad, who has one arm wrapped around her, his smile easy and warm. My brother stands beside me, half an inch shorter than me at the time, his face scrunched in mock annoyance because I had teased him just before the picture was taken.
I reach for it, my fingers tracing over the glass.
They’ve been gone for so long.
But the grief never really fades. It shifts, changes, settles into something quieter, something that lives beneath the surface, waiting for moments like this to rise up and remind me of everything I lost.
I swallow hard, forcing back the lump in my throat.
For a long time after the accident, I convinced myself it was my fault.
If I hadn’t asked my parents to pick me up early that day . . . If I had stayed at school just a little longer . . . If I had been in that car instead of them . . .
The guilt never quite left. And now, it feels like the past is repeating itself. Like I’m still that girl running from something she can’t outrun. I press the picture to my chest and close my eyes.
Will I ever stop running?
Or worse—do I even know how to stay in one place?
Can I learn to be different?