Chapter Thirty – Lark
Holt left just after the sun crested the tree line on the farm, and I let him.
I let him walk out the door with that quiet determination settled into his shoulders, the kind that says he’s already three steps ahead of whatever’s coming next.
The kind that says he’s carrying more than he’s letting me see.
But he kissed me before he left. Slow. Intentional. And somewhere between the warmth of his hands and the steady rhythm of his breath against mine, I let myself believe just for a second that we had time.
Now, hours later, standing in the middle of the inn, I know better.
The quiet here isn’t peaceful. It presses in from every direction, settling into the cracks in the walls, the seams in the floorboards, the hollow spaces where damage still lingers beneath the surface.
The kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of everything—your breathing, your footsteps, the way the air shifts when nothing should be moving at all.
Like every flaw has been outlined in ink, every weakness has been circled and labeled and left behind for someone else to find. For her to find.
“You’re going to tear the plaster off with your eyes if you keep looking at it like that.”
Nolan’s voice cuts through the silence, steady and grounded in a way I’m not sure I am right now.
I blink, dragging my attention away from the jagged seam in the wall, from the place where fire damage bled into water damage, into rot, into something deeper than I’ve had the time or clarity to fully address.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“That’s not thinking. That’s brooding.”
I glance at him, leaning in the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, tape measure clipped to his belt, pen tucked behind his ear like this is just another job.
Like this is normal.
“You’re one to talk.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I don’t pretend it’s productive.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and drop the crowbar against the floor. The sound echoes too loudly in the empty space, bouncing off exposed beams and stripped walls before settling into a quieter tone.
Everything feels muted today as if the house is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.
I wedge the crowbar into the seam again, forcing my focus back into something tangible, something real. The wood groans under pressure, nails resisting before finally giving way with a sharp crack that makes my shoulders tighten.
“Lark.”
“I’m not falling apart.”
“No,” Nolan agrees. “You’re just not here. I’m the one making sure it doesn’t fall apart,” he continues, his tone calm but pointed, “while you’re busy looking over your shoulder every five minutes.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again because I don’t have anything solid to throw back at him. Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.
I drag a hand through my hair, dust clinging to my skin, settling into the edges of everything that already feels too tight.
The inn.
The fire.
The note.
The photograph.
Holt’s face last night—controlled, steady, but not untouched by any of it.
“She wants me distracted,” I say finally.
Nolan doesn’t respond right away.
“She wants me off balance,” I continue, quieter now. “Looking everywhere except where I should be.”
“Which is here.”
I nod.
“Which means I don’t give her that.”
Nolan studies me for a second, then gives a small nod.
“Then prove it.”
So I do.
The next hour passes differently. I tear into the wall with purpose this time, stripping away the damaged wood and exposing the structure beneath it, piece by piece. Dust clings to my skin, settles into my lungs, coats the back of my throat, but I don’t stop.
Every movement is intentional. Every decision is controlled. If Kenzie wants me distracted, she doesn’t get that.
Still…the feeling doesn’t go away. That sense that something is just slightly off. That I’m being watched. Enough to make my skin prickle when I pause too long.
By the time the sun dips lower, the front parlor looks worse than it did this morning, but it’s the kind of worse that means progress. Exposed beams. Cleared sections. Damage brought fully into the light instead of hidden beneath layers I didn’t want to face.
“I’m heading out,” Nolan says.
He doesn’t move right away. His gaze drifts toward the windows. The back hall. The side door.
Like he’s making sure everything is still exactly where it should be before he leaves it behind.
I glance up, surprised at how quickly the time has passed.
“Already?”
He checks his watch. “It’s later than you think.”
I follow his gaze to the windows. He’s right. The light has shifted into that deep, gold edge that fades fast once it starts.
“I’ll lock up,” I say.
He hesitates, his brows furrowing as his gaze travels over my face.
“You’re not staying here by yourself, Lark.”
There’s no edge in it, just concern.
“I’m not alone,” I say. “Deputies are driving by.”
Nolan doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway.
“I don’t like this.”
“I know.”
“Call if anything feels off.” He says it like he expects something to.
“I will.”
He lingers a second longer, then leaves. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that echoes louder than it should.
And just like that—I’m alone.
It’s not long before I feel the energy change. The air feels cooler. Heavier. The shadows stretch longer along the walls, pulling into corners, collecting in places that feel just a little too dark.
I move through the front hall slowly, checking windows, locking doors, following routine like it’s something I can anchor to.
A floorboard creaks upstairs. I freeze, convincing myself it’s just the house settling.
Probably.
I force myself to move again, heading toward the back hall where the tools are laid out.
Something outside shifts. I go still again and turn toward the side window. The yard beyond is dark now, the last light fading into shadow, the outline of the trees blurring together.
Nothing is there. No reason for the tension tightening in my chest. Still, I step closer. Press my hand lightly against the glass.
The silence stretches. And for a second, it doesn’t feel like waiting for something to happen. It feels like something already has. Like a line has already been crossed.
I straighten slowly, wiping my hands against my jeans, forcing myself to breathe evenly. This is what she wants. Fear. Distraction. Doubt.
She doesn’t get that. Not from me. Not anymore.
I turn off the lights one by one, moving toward the front door, the weight of the house settling behind me with every step.
When I finally step outside, locking the door with a steady hand, the night air hits sharp and clean against my skin. The night feels too still, like something just stepped out of sight.
I scan the edge of the property, and that’s when I see it, a truck parked farther out than it should be. Half shadowed by the trees.
My stomach tightens because I know it’s Nolan’s.
Engine off. No lights. No movement.
I take a step forward.
“Nolan?” I call.
Nothing answers. The wind shifts. Branches scrape. And when I look back, it’s still there.
Still empty. Still—wrong.
I don’t look back again. Instead, I walk toward my car, gravel crunching beneath my boots, the quiet stretching wide around me. But just before I reach it, I stop. Something pulls at me. Not a sound or movement, just instinct.
I turn slowly, looking back at the inn. It stands there in the dark, silent and still, every window reflecting nothing but shadow.
My pulse kicks harder. This is the moment she wants, and I’m done giving her that.
I open the car door, slide inside, and lock it immediately. And as I pull away from the inn, the headlights cutting across the front of the house, I make one thing very clear in my own mind.
Kenzie didn’t pick a victim. She picked a fight, and she chose the wrong one.
The engine hums low beneath me as I pull onto the road, headlights cutting a narrow path through the dark. The inn disappears behind me in pieces—first the porch, then the windows, then the outline of the roof swallowed by trees.
I tell myself that’s it. That I’m done for the night. That whatever I felt back there—whatever tension settled into my chest—is just leftover adrenaline. A body still catching up to a threat that hasn’t shown itself again.
But the farther I get from the inn, the worse it feels. Like a thread pulling tight somewhere just out of reach.
I adjust my grip on the wheel, trying to shake it off, trying to focus on the road ahead, on the steady rhythm of tires against pavement, on anything that feels real and grounded. It doesn’t work. The feeling lingers.
By the time I reach the turnoff toward Holt’s property, my pulse has picked up without my permission, my senses stretched thin in a way I can’t quite explain.
I slow slightly as I take the turn. The road curves, familiar and quiet, the tree line closing in on either side. Everything looks the same. Everything should feel the same. But it doesn’t. The air feels different here. Charged.
I crest the small rise just before the property line, and for a second, I think it’s my eyes playing tricks on me. A flicker. Low and faint. Gone before I can focus on it.
I blink, leaning forward slightly, my grip tightening on the wheel. Nothing, just darkness. Just the outline of the pasture stretching beyond the trees.
I exhale slowly. Something is wrong. Instinct overrides logic before I can talk myself out of it.
I press the gas, I’m already too close to turn around.