Chapter 24
twenty-four
Boone gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles ached as his mother's voice came through the speaker, high and fractured in a way that made his stomach drop: “Boone? Baby, is that you?"
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” He forced his voice to stay level, the way he’d learned to do during countless episodes over the years. “I’m coming to you right now. Just stay calm, okay?”
“They won’t let me see you,” she wailed. “They’re keeping you from me!”
Walker cut in, steady as ever, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of fear in his voice: “Boone, she’s holding a knife to Johanna’s throat.”
Jesus. He yanked open his truck door, and Bishop popped up from where he’d been napping in the backseat with a questioning look.
“Nobody’s keeping me from you, Mom. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Just don’t hurt Johanna. She’s my friend.”
“Friend?” She all but screeched the word. “She works for him. For Nash. They’re all poisoning your mind against me.”
Boone slammed the truck into gear, tires spinning in the snow before catching. Bishop skidded across the backseat as he whipped into a sharp U-turn. “Mom, I need you to listen. Put down the knife. I’m on my way.”
The line went silent for a moment, then Walker’s voice returned. “She’s still got the knife, but she’s listening. Get here fast.”
Boone hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, pressing the gas pedal until the engine whined in protest. The truck fishtailed on the icy road before straightening out.
He gripped the wheel with both hands, fighting to keep control of the vehicle, of his breathing, of the panic clawing up his throat.
He’d known his mother was spiraling. The signs had been there for weeks.
Missed appointments, strange phone calls at odd hours, her medication bottles suspiciously full when he checked.
But he’d been busy with the ranch, with Sunny’s recovery, with his own life.
He’d let the distance grow, telling himself it was better for both of them.
And now she had a knife to Johanna’s throat.
The truck’s headlights cut through falling snow, illuminating the empty road ahead. Eight minutes to Valor Ridge if he pushed it. Eight minutes for his mother to lose what little grip on reality remained. Eight minutes for Johanna to bleed.
His mind flashed to the knife block in his mother’s kitchen, the empty slot where the butcher knife should have been. A six-inch serrated blade, recently sharpened because his mother insisted on keeping her kitchen tools in perfect condition even as the rest of her life unraveled.
“Fuck,” he muttered, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. Bishop whined. “Sorry, buddy. It’s okay. I’m okay. We’ll all be okay.”
He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the dog.
The truck rounded a curve too fast, and he corrected, tires skidding on black ice.
Jesus. He had to get control. He couldn’t help anyone if he ended up in a ditch.
The turn onto Ridge Road loomed ahead. He slowed just enough to make it without sliding, then accelerated again.
Through the trees, the lights of Valor Ridge appeared—warm yellow squares against the darkness, Christmas lights blinking along the roofline.
Everything looked so fucking normal, like his mother wasn’t holding a knife to someone’s throat.
He cut his headlights as he approached, rolling to a stop at the edge of the property. The truck’s clock read 12:17 AM.
Christmas Day.
Some fucking holiday.
Boone slid from the cab, and told Bishop to stay. The last thing he wanted was to put his almost ten-year-old dog in danger, too. He moved quickly toward the main house, sticking to the shadows. As he rounded the barn, the scene on the porch came into view.
His mother stood with her back to the railing, knife pressed against Johanna’s throat. Blood trickled down Johanna’s neck—not a lot, but enough to make Boone’s stomach twist. Walker stood in the doorway, hands raised, his expression carefully blank. Jonah hovered just behind him.
His mother was a ghost of herself—skeletal thin, her once-beautiful face hollowed out, eyes too large in their sockets.
Her gray-streaked hair hung in clumps around her face, and she wore mismatched clothes, one foot in a boot, the other in what looked like a bedroom slipper.
A harsh tremor ran through her arm, making the knife wobble against Johanna’s skin.
“Mom,” Boone called, stepping into the light. “I’m here now.”
She whipped her head toward his voice, the knife momentarily pulling away from Johanna’s throat. “Boone?” Her voice hitched, childlike and confused. “Where’s my boy?”
“It’s me.” He took another cautious step forward, hands raised to show he carried no weapon. “I’m right here. Let Johanna go.”
His mother’s gaze skittered over him, brow furrowing. “No, you’re not my Boone. My boy is little. Just a little thing.” She pressed the knife back against Johanna’s throat, harder this time. “What have you done with him? What did Nash do to my baby?”
Christ. She didn’t recognize him.
He moved closer, stepping into the circle of porch light. “Mom, look at me. Really look. I’m grown now. I’m not a little boy anymore.”
She squinted at him, her pupils blown wide and black—meth, most likely, or whatever pills she’d managed to get her hands on. Her free hand reached out, trembling, before dropping back to clutch Johanna’s arm.
“No.” She shook her head violently. “No, no, no. You’re trying to trick me. My Boone is small. He needs me. He’s waiting for me to tuck him in before Santa comes.”
The last time his mother tucked him in, he’d been eleven. Before his father died. Before she started disappearing into herself for days at a time. Before the drugs and the long stretches of psychosis.
“Mom,” he tried again, softer this time. “It’s Christmas. Remember? We were going to have dinner together tomorrow. You and me.”
“Christmas,” she repeated, the word hollow. “Yes, he’s waiting for Santa. My little boy. He wants a remote control truck.”
Johanna stood perfectly still, her eyes locked on Boone’s. The blood on her neck had dried to a dark streak, but the knife still pressed against her skin, indenting it with each erratic twitch of his mother’s hand.
“Leonora,” Walker said from the doorway, his voice gentle in a way Boone had rarely heard. “Your son is right here. He’s grown into a fine man.”
“You!” she snarled, attention snapping to Walker. “You did this. You poisoned him against me. You made him hate me!”
“Nobody hates you,” Boone said, taking another step. He was close enough now to smell her—unwashed skin, the chemical bite of meth, something sickly sweet underneath. “And nobody poisoned me against you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
“Then why did you leave?” The question came out broken, a child’s plea. “You left me alone. Everyone left.”
“I didn’t leave,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I just grew up. That’s what kids do, Mom. They grow up.”
She stared at him, recognition flickering across her face for just a moment before disappearing again. “Give him back to me,” she whispered, the knife wavering. “Give me my baby boy back.”
The naked desperation in her voice cracked something in Boone’s chest. He’d never be that child again. She’d never get back the years the drugs had stolen.
“Mom, I can’t.” He swallowed hard, the words scraping his throat raw. “I’m grown now.”
She froze, the knife going still against Johanna’s throat. Then her face crumpled, a terrible keening sound rising from deep in her chest. “My baby. I want my baby back.”
“I know,” Boone whispered, and he did. He understood wanting something so badly you’d destroy everything else to get it. “I know. Mom, please, put down the knife. You’re hurting Johanna. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“She works for him!” His mother jabbed a bony finger toward Walker. “They’re all in on it. The whole town knows what goes on at this place.”
Jonah shifted behind Walker, clearly calculating whether he could rush her before she slashed the knife. Boone shot him a warning look. His mother’s paranoia made her unpredictable—any sudden movement could end in blood.
“What exactly do you think goes on here?” A new voice cut through the tension, casual as a summer breeze.
River stepped from the shadows at the corner of the porch, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, snowflakes caught in his dark curls. He moved with the loose-limbed ease of a man who’d just wandered into a friendly conversation rather than a hostage situation.
His mother’s head snapped toward the sound, knife momentarily wavering. “Who are you?”
“River. We met a few months ago, remember? On Main Street in front of the hardware store.” He flashed his trademark grin.
“You called me handsome and gave me a flower.” He pulled a dried flower out of his pocket and held it out to her.
She hesitated, then reached out and snatched it, her eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” she said distantly. “I remember.”
“I fixed your water heater.” He leaned against the porch railing, nodding toward Johanna. “Mrs. C, you mind easing up on the doctor there? She’s got those cookies in the oven, and they’re gonna burn if this goes on much longer.”
There were no cookies. The kitchen was dark behind Walker. But the absurdity of the statement seemed to penetrate his mother’s frantic energy. Her grip on the knife loosened slightly.
“Water heater?” she repeated.
“Yeah, the one in your basement that kept making that knocking sound. You said it sounded like someone was trying to break in.” River shrugged, snowflakes melting on his shoulders.
“You made me tea afterward. Earl Grey with two sugars, and told me about that quilt your grandmother made. The blue one with the stars.”
She blinked rapidly, the knife dipping an inch from Johanna’s throat. “I remember the quilt.”
“Course you do. You showed it to me. Said your boy used to hide under it during thunderstorms.”