Chapter 6
I’ve been staring at half-packed boxes for the past hour, since Mateo left around three in the morning and told me to call if I needed anything.
The apartment feels too quiet. Everything is too quiet.
Can a crisis really work like that? I’ve only ever known them as loud.
That’s how it was when I left home. Yelling, passive-aggressive insults, and direct efforts to make me feel small.
Most of that was from my mother. Some from my father.
My siblings occasionally inserted their unwelcomed thoughts and opinions about me, but for the most part, they disengaged and went on with their lives.
This time it’s different.
It’s quiet. Still. The kind that just waits for you to notice the damage.
Even the bookshop downstairs seems to be waiting to see what I’ll do.
I pick up my phone. Jess answers on the first ring despite it being in the middle of the damn night.
“Tell me you’re not packing,” she says.
“I’m looking at boxes.”
“Sadie—“
“I don’t know what to do.” I sink onto the couch, pulling my legs up under me. “Everyone knows now, Jess. The whole town. The whole internet, which is essentially the whole world. Judith Ashford is organizing a mob. Torches. Pitchforks. They want to tar and feather me.”
“You’re being overdramatic.”
“Maybe, but they are suggesting people boycott my shop. Owen’s probably somewhere laughing at me. And Macy—“ My voice cracks. “Macy thought she was celebrating me. She had no idea what she was doing. She just wanted to tell everyone because she was proud of me.”
Jess is quiet for a moment. “So what’s there to be afraid of?”
“Fighting and losing. I’m scared of staying and having them reject me anyway.” I stop, the truth catching in my throat. “It’s hard caring about something this much and watching it get destroyed by people who don’t even understand what they’re destroying.”
“Like your family did.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Like that.”
Jess lets out a long breath. “Sadie, I love you. You know that. And I will get on a plane right now and help you pack if that’s what you really want. Or I’ll just be there while you fight whatever is about to come.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“How did I get so lucky to have you in my life?”
“Fate.”
“Liar. You answered my ad for a roommate.”
“And you didn’t murder me, so clearly we were meant to be best friends.” I can hear her smile. “But seriously, Sadie. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want to run,” I say finally.
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple—“
“It is exactly that simple.” Her voice softens.
“You left California because staying meant letting your family make you feel small and ashamed for doing what you love. You moved to Sierra Rose Ridge, and you built something beautiful. You wrote a book about it. And now some people are trying to make you feel small and ashamed again, and you’re about to let them win. ”
“What if I stay and it gets worse?”
“Then it gets worse. But at least you fought for something you love instead of running because you’re scared.”
I stare at the half-packed boxes across the room. “You make it sound so simple.”
“That’s because it is. Besides, I’ve seen enough true crime shows to know how to hide evidence, just in case we need to go that route.”
“We aren’t going to murder anyone.”
“We’ll see.” Then more seriously, “Do you want me to come down there?”
“No. Don’t uproot your life, even temporarily, for this.” I wipe my eyes.
“No matter what, it will be okay. Life is full of messy moments. That’s kind of the point of it.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just don’t listen to me.” She pauses.
“You’ll let me know if you change your mind and want me to come out. And call me tomorrow just to let me know you’re okay.”
“I will. Thanks, Jess.”
“Anytime. And hey?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. Whether you stay or go. But I really hope you stay.”
The line goes dead.
I stand up and sigh.
“I guess I’m doing this,” I whisper to literally no one.
Maybe the fates.
I look at the boxes. The suitcase. The evidence of my almost-escape.
Then I start unpacking, methodically putting everything back where it belongs. Deliberate, the exact opposite of how I tossed everything in the boxes in the first place. Each item I put back is a small act of defiance. A promise to myself.
By six in the morning, the sun is rising, and everything is back in place. The apartment looks normal again, as if I’d never considered leaving.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop.
My Sienna Saguaro social media accounts are still there, untouched by me since the explosion.
No new posts. No acknowledgment. Sure, the notifications are probably piling up—readers commenting, sharing, tagging—but I haven’t looked.
The last thing I posted was a book quote from three days ago, sitting there as if nothing had happened.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I start typing. It’s not a post, really. Just a draft. Notes for something I might say when I’m ready.
To the readers who found Sunset Ridge and recognized a real place in its pages: you’re right. Sierra Rose Ridge is my home. It’s the town that saved me, and Wildfire Summer is my love letter to it. I’m not sorry I wrote it. I’m proud.
I don’t post it. I save it to drafts and close the laptop. It’s enough that the words are there now, waiting for when I’m braver.
But I’m still restless. Wired. My hands need something to do.
By seven, I decide to head downstairs to the shop. I wasn’t planning to open today—it’s Sunday, the shop is normally closed—but I need to do something. Anything. Check inventory, prep the register for tomorrow… something that feels normal.
Sierra Rose is softer on Sundays. The air carries the scent of desert sage on the breeze.
This early in the morning, the St. Rosa’s Chapel bell hasn’t even rung out yet.
The town square is quiet. It’s too early for anyone to be out.
Church isn’t for another hour, and people are probably just waking up.
It’s just me and the sun painting the red rocks a brilliant gold in the distance.
My town. My home.
I take the shop’s keys out of my pocket and reach for the door handle. Tacky stick attaches to my skin.
Ew.
I pull my hand back and look down.
Red. Tacky. Already drying at the edges, but still wet enough to stick to my skin.
My brain takes a second to process what I’m seeing. Paint. Why would there be—
I look up, scanning the storefront.
My stomach drops.
SLUT is spray-painted across the glass of the front door in capital letters. Below it: WHORE. In smaller letters that snake across the large front window: WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE PERVERT! GO AWAY!
The keys slip from my hand and clatter to the ground.
Someone did this. Someone came to my shop, my home, and did this. While I was upstairs, unpacking boxes and deciding to stay.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m just standing here staring between my paint-covered hand and those words on my storefront.
“Sadie!”
I turn. Macy’s rushing toward me from the direction of the parking lot, out of breath as though she ran the whole way.
“Sadie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I thought everyone would be happy for you, and I didn’t think about—“ She’s talking fast, words tumbling over each other. ”—I should have asked before posting, and I’m so sorry, and I understand if you fire me, but please know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I’m not responding. I can’t. My eyes keep going back to the door. The window. To my red-stained hand.
Those words.
“And I know it’s my fault, but I swear I was just excited and I thought—“ Macy stops mid-sentence and follows my gaze. “Oh, my god.”
That’s putting it lightly.
“Oh my god, Sadie, who—when did—“ She steps closer to the door, reaching out to touch it, then pulls her hand back as though she fears it will burn her. Her face goes from shock to furious in about two seconds. “Who the fuck did this?”
The anger in her voice surprises me. I’ve never heard Macy say anything other than excited and chipper.
“I don’t know,” I manage. My voice sounds hollow. Distant.
“This is—“ Macy whirls around, scanning the square like the vandal might still be here. “This is not okay. This is—we need to call the police. We need to find out who did this and—and—” Her hands are fists at her sides. “I will personally find whoever did this and make them regret ever—”
“Macy.”
She looks at me, eyes blazing with a fierceness I’ve never seen from her before.
“We should call the police,” she says firmly. “This is vandalism. This is harassment. This is not okay.”
I should. I know I should.
I nod, pull out my phone. Hit send.
It rings once.
“Sadie?” A flicker of relief sparks in my soul.
“Mateo.”
“What’s wrong?” His tone sharpens immediately. He can hear it in my voice—whatever carefully held-together composure I have is obviously crumbling.
“Someone...” I look at the door again, then at my paint-covered hand. “Someone vandalized the shop.”
Silence.
Say something.
“Are you there now?”
“Yeah. I came down to check on things and—“
“Are you safe? Is anyone around?”
I scan the square. A few people in the distance, but no one close. No one is paying attention. “I’m fine. Macy’s here. But Mateo, they—“
“I’m on my way. Stay where you are. Don’t go inside alone.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The line goes dead.
I turn toward Macy, who has her phone to her ear.
“Thank you,” Macy says before hanging up and pocketing it. “An officer is on their way.”
I nod, unable to form words. We stare at the storefront, those words. SLUT. WHORE. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE, PERVERT.
“Someone hates me this much?” I ask. “They hate me enough to do this?”
“I don’t think that’s it, Sadie,” Macy says, turning me away from the hatred and wrapping her arms around me. “And even if there was someone like that, there are hundreds of people in this town who love you.”