Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ava
The wind is a living thing by the time I leave the clinic—angry, impatient, battering against my hood like it’s trying to shake me loose from the mountain. Snow lashes sideways, turning everything into a blur of white rage.
This storm arrived early. And wrong.
Ellie locked the clinic doors the second the last patient shuffled out.
My boots crunch through deepening drifts. I tuck my chin deeper into my collar and keep my eyes narrowed, counting down the minutes to warmth and light.
Only one mile between clinic and home. Violet walked it this morning. Smiling. Confident.
The thought unclenches something in my chest. Just a little.
This morning feels like another lifetime. Or someone else’s.
Because all day, I haven’t been able to shake him—the man in the clinic who flashed a press badge like a threat disguised as bureaucracy. The stranger who asked about Jackson Hale.
The name still skitters across the inside of my skull like a spider’s legs.
I told him I didn’t know who he was talking about—and I meant it. Because I don’t know Jackson Hale.
I only know Jax.
Jax, who taught Violet how to start a fire without panic. Jax, who kissed me like a confession—and then let me go when I said I wasn’t ready.
The thought knocks the air out of me like a fist.
If that man proves Jax isn’t who he says he is… what then?
What if Jax has to leave? What if he’s taken back—dragged into a world he ran from until his lungs bled?
Where does that leave Violet and me?
Cold fear tumbles through my stomach as I reach the turnoff to our cabin. The porch light is on, a golden orb fighting against the wind.
Good. She’s home. She made it.
I force a shaky exhale and climb onto the porch, shaking snow from my hood as I fumble for the doorknob.
The door swings open easily.
Too easily.
“Violet?” I call into the warm, lamplit air, snow slushing off my boots.
No answer.
No Violet sprawled on the couch with a mug of cocoa. No music playing through tinny earbuds. No boots discarded by the heater.
Just stillness.
“Vi?” Louder this time. Sharper.
My heart skips.
The house should be loud. Teenage-girl loud. The kind of loud that makes me grateful and annoyed in equal measure.
I shed my coat, yank off gloves, and check the kitchen. Nothing. No hot chocolate supplies on the counter. No bag from the general store.
Maybe she stopped by Jax’s? Maybe she’s warming up there, waiting for me?
God, please.
“Violet?” I try again, but the hallway eats my voice.
I don’t panic yet.
I go to her room—empty. The blanket on her bed is perfectly smooth.
Too smooth.
The wind howls against the windows, rattling them like something is trying to get in. A gust slams a loose shutter outside, the bang echoing through the walls like a fist.
Okay. Now panic.
I grab her spare coat, the one she didn’t wear this morning. I check every corner—bathroom, loft, under the damn table even though she hasn’t hidden under furniture since she was eight.
She isn’t here.
My breath falters. My vision narrows.
I force myself to think, to organize the chaos before it takes over. Violet said she was heading straight to the store and then straight home. No detours. No wandering.
That was two hours ago.
She should be here.
Unless…
Unless the storm hit early. Unless she didn’t make it back in time. Unless she’s somewhere on that road… with a stranger who asks the wrong questions.
“No,” I whisper, out loud, to no one.
I lunge for the landline—the old rotary that came with the cabin. My fingers slip against the cold metal dial. I call the store first.
The line doesn’t connect—just dead silence. Not even static.
Storm’s closed the wires. Frozen them. Severed them.
I try the sheriff’s office—same dead line. The mountain has cut us off.
Jax. I need Jax.
Even if I don’t know what we are. Even if I’m terrified of needing him. I need him now.
My hands shake as I snatch up my small, useless phone again, thumb fumbling over the cracked edge of the case.
The signal bar flickers weakly—one moment of mercy. I don’t think. I dial.
The wind screams against the cabin walls, rattling windows in their frames. The floor trembles under my boots, the storm pressing against every inch of this home like it wants inside.
One ring. Then static.
I clutch the phone harder, like gripping it tight enough might anchor the call to this world.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Please—come on.”
Another ring — warped, distorted, like the sound has to crawl its way through the storm.
Then—
A click. A breath.
“Ava?”
Jax’s voice. Rough. Present. Alive.
A lifeline made of sound.