Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Bridget poured hot water over a tea bag, the steam curling into the small kitchen.
The scent of chamomile filled the air, soothing, but her fingers froze on the handle as she heard the crunch of gravel.
Jo’s truck had pulled up, and a familiar prickle of worry stirred in Bridget’s chest. She grabbed a second mug, dropped in another tea bag, and went to the door.
Through the window, she saw Jo crouched by the steps, hunched shoulders barely visible in the evening light.
Bridget’s stomach tightened. Jo looked worn, her tired eyes focused on Pickles, the orange tabby who’d made himself part of their porch.
Usually wary of anyone getting too close, Pickles leaned into Jo’s hand as if sensing her weariness.
“Hey,” Bridget said softly, stepping out with two steaming mugs.
Jo glanced up, a tired smile on her face. “Hey, sis.”
Bridget set the mugs on the railing and crouched down beside her, reaching out to stroke the cat’s back. “Would you look at that,” she murmured, stroking the tabby’s soft fur. “Guess he’s warming up to us.”
Jo nodded, her hand slowing. “Yeah, maybe he’ll even come inside one of these days.”
“At least he’s got the porch,” Bridget said, offering Jo her tea.
Jo took the mug, her face tightening as she blew on the tea. “Bridge, we need to talk about the cottage.”
A chill went through Bridget that had nothing to do with the temperature. “What about it?”
“Garvin’s kids are flying in tomorrow. With him gone…” Jo trailed off, glancing at the cat curled up at her feet.
Bridget’s throat felt dry. “They might not want to sell to us.”
Jo nodded, her gaze drifting. “We don’t know what they’ll decide.”
Bridget gripped her mug, fighting to steady her thoughts. This place had become her sanctuary, her first real taste of stability in years. The thought of losing it, of being uprooted again, left her feeling untethered. She gestured to Pickles. “And him? If we have to leave…”
Jo reached over, squeezing her arm. “Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll figure it out.”
Bridget forced herself to nod, swallowing against the knot in her throat. You just got settled here. Don’t let it slip away.
She shivered as a gust of icy wind swept through the trees, rustling the last of the fallen leaves across the gravel. She tugged her sweater tighter, glancing at Jo. “Let’s head inside before we freeze.”
Jo nodded, giving Pickles one final pet, then led the way.
They stepped into the cottage, a cozy warmth washing over them.
Though she’d only recently moved in, the place already felt like home to Bridget.
Jo’s “cottage chic” style filled every corner: thrifted knickknacks, well-loved furniture, and stacks of books.
Jo had spent years scouring yard sales, picking out pieces with the same care she put into everything.
Bridget took it all in, grateful for the warmth and familiarity. The glow of a table lamp cast a soft light over the overstuffed couch, the polished wood floor, and the shelves lined with a mix of Jo’s true-crime novels and her own well-worn self-help guides.
In the corner, their goldfish, Finn, swam up to the side of his aquarium, seemingly undisturbed by the chill they’d left behind.
Outside, the soft trickling of the stream running through the woods added to the cottage’s peaceful hum.
Bridget set her mug down, taking in the small details that made the place feel whole.
Jo moved to Finn’s aquarium, sprinkling in a flake of food. The goldfish darted up, snapping it in an instant.
“At least someone’s happy to see me,” she muttered, a faint smile crossing her face.
Bridget leaned against the doorframe, studying her sister’s face. “Any leads on Garvin?”
Jo’s smile faded. “Not yet. But it was violent, Bridge. Someone killed him, and I can’t shake the feeling it’s tied to this property.”
A chill settled over Bridget as she glanced at the window, the shadows outside feeling deeper, closer.
Her hand twitched, her mind flashing to the gun hidden under her bed.
She hadn’t told Jo about it—or about everything else she’d tried to leave behind.
Jo had saved her, pulled her out of that life, given her a chance at something better.
If Jo knew the whole truth, would she still look at her the same way?
Instead, she forced a bright smile. “I brought home some bread from the bakery. They were about to toss it. I could warm it up, make some olive oil and balsamic?”
Jo’s face softened. “Sounds great.”
Bridget busied herself in the kitchen, grateful for the distraction. She sliced the bread with careful precision, her hands steady despite her swirling thoughts. She didn’t have to tell her sister everything. Not yet.
As she arranged the bread on a plate, her eyes drifted to Jo, sitting by the fire, her gaze distant. One word, and it could all unravel. Her past felt like a shadow that stretched over everything, threatening the life she’d built here, the peace she’d barely begun to trust.
She brought the bread to the table, trying to focus on the simple comfort of food and warmth. Jo looked up as Bridget set down the plate, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes.
“Thanks,” Jo murmured. She took a slice, dipping it in the oil, savoring the simple meal as if it were a feast.
Bridget took a seat across from her, her own slice of bread in hand. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. It was quiet, peaceful—everything she’d ever wanted.
As she looked around, Bridget realized just how fragile it all was. A missing landlord. A violent death. A past that refused to stay buried. She tightened her grip on the bread, her mind racing with what-ifs. But she didn’t have to face them alone. Not here, not with Jo beside her.
Jo caught her gaze, a small, reassuring smile softening her face. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”
Bridget nodded, her own smile wavering but determined. “Together.”