Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Nysa
Not sleeping the night before because I was tending to a horse really took a toll on me. Or maybe it was the fact that I haven’t slept much at all since arriving in Birchwood Springs. Either way, the exhaustion felt bone-deep, pressing down on me as soon as I walked through my grandmother’s door.
Falling asleep as I lay in my bed was easy.
It reminded me of those times when my family and I would take road trips from North Carolina to visit my grandparents. We’d arrive late, tired from the drive, and my brother and I would barely make it through dinner before passing out in the guest room. It was the kind of sleep that comes after exhaustion breaks you down—deep, consuming, like surrendering to a place where nothing can reach you.
This time, I didn’t even make it through unpacking or dinner. I fell onto the bed and woke up the next morning at four, still clutching the silver-framed family portrait I’d found on the nightstand. Some days, like today, I miss them more than others. And some nights, I feel like they’re still here with me.
I sit up slowly, placing the frame back where it belongs. My room hasn’t changed much since I was a teenager. The walls are still a pale periwinkle, the quilt on the bed is the same one my grandmother sewed when I was fourteen. It’s made from old clothes from my parents and brother. Something warm to keep close to me at night. The bookshelf in the corner still holds my collection of worn-out paperbacks.
I tidy up the room because I don’t want to wake Grandma before her usual seven in the morning. She values her routine, and the last thing I want to do is throw her off, especially since she hasn’t been feeling well—or so she claimed. I still have to find out about her health. She better be . . . well, healthy. I want her healthy but if she tricked me, I’m going to be so mad—and annoyed at her.
At six-thirty, I’m in the shower, letting the hot water chase away the lingering grogginess. By seven, I’m in the kitchen, preparing an omelet and slicing bread for toast. The scent of butter melting in the skillet must have lured her in because her voice is soft but cheerful as she enters the room.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she greets me, her silver hair slightly mussed from sleep. She’s wearing a blue robe and her slippers shuffle softly on the floor. “I was wondering when you’d be ready to start the day. I’m glad you were able to rest, though.”
“Morning, Grandma,” I say, setting the spatula down and wrapping her in a hug. “Thank you for . . . not interrogating me when I arrived.”
“Why would I? You looked too tired,” she says simply, patting my shoulder before stepping back. “But now you have to tell me how long you’ve been in town. Malerick mentioned something about a break-in and threatening notes. What is that about?”
I groan, turning back to the stove. “Of course he told you. You want coffee before I give you the 4-1-1?”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “I can’t drink coffee anymore. Doctor’s orders.”
That catches my attention. I glance over my shoulder at her, frowning. “What is it? We can take you to see a specialist. I’m sure?—”
“Jitters,” she cuts me off, waving her hand dismissively. “I get too jittery if I have too much caffeine.”
“Yes, but you said in one of your texts that you were very sick,” I remind her, turning fully to face her now.
“I had the flu,” she replies, her tone matter-of-fact.
“No,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “You made me believe that you didn’t have much time left.”
She shrugs, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Well, I’m an old lady—seventy-eight—I don’t have much time left.”
I glare at her, crossing my arms. “You tricked me into coming back.”
“No,” she says, feigning innocence. “I think you took everything out of context.”
I huff, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”
She laughs softly, reaching for a glass of water. “Oh, calm down. It worked, didn’t it?”
I can’t argue with that, but also, she put Maddie and Hopper in danger. Though did she? Because if what Malerick said is correct, they have been using his land too. Maybe my presence is helping them figure things out before they’re in real danger. I really don’t think which one is real, but there’s no point worrying right now.
Breakfast is quiet but comfortable. We sit at the small kitchen table, the one that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive, and eat while the morning sun streams through the windows.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence as she spreads jam onto her toast. “How long have you been in town?”
I pause, considering how much I want to tell her. “A little over a week.”
“And in that week, you’ve already had a break-in and received threatening notes?” She shakes her head. “Yet, you couldn’t come to visit me, huh?”
I wince. “You don’t have to make it sound so dramatic.”
Her brow arches. “Sweetheart, you’re my granddaughter. I know you. Trouble doesn’t just find you—you attract it like a magnet.”
I sigh, resting my fork on my plate. “It’s not like I planned for this to happen.”
“No one plans for trouble,” she says, her voice softening. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face it alone. Is it . . . is it the same reason why you left three years ago?”
She knows enough about what happened, but not all of it. Not the part where they had me and almost killed me. Only what I saw and that I was able to escape. This is definitely not the time to tell her more. I don’t want to scare her.
I find myself staring down at my breakfast, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Grandma . . .”
She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. Her skin is warm, her grip gentle but firm. “You don’t have to tell me everything right now. But when you’re ready, I’m here.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Thanks.”
After breakfast, I help her tidy up the kitchen. She hums softly to herself as she washes the dishes, a tune I recognize from when I was a kid. It’s one of those little things that makes this house feel like home, even after all these years.
Once the dishes are done, she disappears into the living room to water her plants, and I take a moment to step outside. The morning air is crisp, the kind that wakes you up in a way coffee never could. I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs as I lean against the porch railing.
Birchwood Springs looks almost the same as it did when I was a kid. The trees, the houses, the quiet streets—it’s all so familiar. For a moment though, I let myself wonder if I could stay. If I could make this place my home again.
But then I remember the threatening note. The slashed tires. The bloody handprint on my porch. All those bodies on my land.
And I know better than to let myself believe in things like safety and permanence. Still, a part of me wishes I don’t have to run anymore. That I can stay and have a home. A place that’s mine and maybe . . . the images of Maddie and Hopper appear, but that’s impossible, isn’t it?