Chapter 9 - Ryker
CHAPTER NINE
Ryker
By late afternoon, the Fox Hollow Community Hall doesn’t look like the sagging skeleton it was two weeks ago. It looks alive again—barely, but enough.
The old beams gleam under black paint, the floors are scrubbed clean, and Norah’s flowers—calla lilies, inky tulips, and clusters of dyed hydrangea—hang from the ceiling like storm clouds.
Jude said it best earlier: It’s got that perfect mix of “haunted and holy.”
We’ve been working on this place nonstop, every day since the mayor announced his ridiculous deadline. The Halloween event was supposed to be a “simple showcase,” but Brighton wanted spectacle.
Fog machines. Candles. Cobwebs on purpose instead of neglect. We even brought in a few of the high school art students to paint murals on the back wall—skeletal trees, moonlight, wolves.
It’s kitschy and eerie and, I’ll admit, impressive as hell.
Norah’s touch ties it together. The flowers she arranged climb up the pillars, twisting through the beams like living shadows. They’re burgundy but shimmer under the lights.
She’s somewhere in the back now, finishing up the centerpiece—a floral arch dripping with faux cobwebs and glitter.
Jude whistles beside me as we haul one last crate of tools out the door. “Didn’t think we’d pull it off.”
I grunt. “You say that every project.”
He grins, but it’s tight. He’s been off these last few days—half here, half somewhere else. His phone keeps buzzing, and every time he looks at it, his jaw clenches.
“You gonna tell me what’s eating you?” I ask, setting the crate in the truck bed.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Amber.”
I nod. His sister. Sweet kid. Pregnant and dealing with that idiot boyfriend of hers. “What happened?”
“Same old shit.” He kicks at a loose pebble. “Luke’s been unreliable. She called me crying yesterday.”
“Fuck.”
He laughs bitterly. “Yeah. So, after tonight, I’m heading down there. Stay a few days, help her out. Maybe knock some sense into Luke while I’m at it.”
“You want company?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. You hate long drives, and someone’s got to make sure the heaters don’t crap out at the Fernbridge site.”
“Fair enough.”
He hesitates, then adds quietly, “You could come to the party, though. The mayor’s footing the bill. Free booze. Terrible costumes.”
I snort. “Tempting.”
He grins. “That’s a no.”
“Correct.”
Truth is, I don’t do parties. Haven’t since Claire. Crowds make me twitchy, and holidays feel like hollow performances.
I’ll finish my shift, grab a beer at home, and sleep for the first time in a week. That’s enough celebration for me.
Inside, the hall’s packed with last-minute chaos. Volunteers in matching “Fox Hollow Halloween Bash” shirts run around with armfuls of fake cobwebs and paper lanterns.
Kids dart between ladders, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. Someone’s testing the sound system—static bursts of eerie music cut through the chatter.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, take it in. It’s strange, seeing this place alive again.
Norah walks out from behind the arch, hands streaked with black dye, curls pinned back. She looks tired but radiant, the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you. The scent of her flowers clings to her—dark and floral with something wilder underneath.
She spots us and waves. “You two are miracle workers.”
Jude smiles, trying to lighten his own mood. “You’re the miracle. We just hammered things together.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says, looking around. “You’ve made this place beautiful again.”
I clear my throat. “Functional, at least.”
She smirks, but before she can say anything more, the door opens, and cold air rushes in.
Dorian James steps inside like he owns the place—tailored coat, scarf looped perfectly, eyes sweeping the hall with that architect’s detachment that makes everyone else feel like background.
He takes it in—the lights, the flowers, the new trim along the baseboards—and nods, impressed. “It’s stunning,” he says, voice low and even. “Truly.”
Norah stiffens. I notice because I always notice her. Her shoulders tighten, but she forces a polite smile. “Thanks.”
Jude, oblivious or maybe just too tired to care, claps Dorian on the back. “You missed the real fun—the part where we nearly froze our asses off fixing that leaky window.”
Dorian chuckles, though his eyes flick toward Norah again. “I’ll make sure to show up next time. You’ve outdone yourselves.”
“Just wait till Christmas,” Jude says. “We’ll be tearing half of this down again for the winter market. It’s going to be chaos.”
“Good chaos,” Dorian says. “That builds legacies.”
He says it like he means it, but like he’s already halfway somewhere else in his head.
Norah mutters something about checking the humidity and slips away before anyone can stop her. Jude notices but doesn’t comment. Dorian’s jaw tightens for a second, then he smiles again, composed.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says, adjusting his coat. “Just wanted to see the progress before tonight. Mayor Brighton’s thrilled.”
“He should be,” Jude says, grinning. “He’s the one who hired us last minute and demanded miracles.”
Dorian nods to me. “Ryker.”
“James.”
He studies me for a second, then says, “Good work.”
It’s short, genuine. I nod back. “You too.”
He leaves, boots echoing against the floorboards. The moment the door shuts behind him, the air seems to settle.
Jude exhales. “That guy’s wound tighter than a nail gun.”
“He’s got the polished kind of stress,” I say. “The kind that costs money.”
Jude chuckles. “And you’ve got the grumpy kind.”
“Balance,” I mutter.
He laughs, but the sound fades quickly. “I should hit the road soon. It’s a five-hour drive, maybe six with the snow.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay for the opening? Get some food in you first?”
He shakes his head. “If I stay, I’ll drink. And if I drink, I won’t leave. Amber needs me more than Brighton needs my costume.”
I nod. “Tell her hi for me. Tell Maisie I asked about her, too.”
He gives me a quick hug. “Try not to work tonight, okay? Take a damn break.”
“Go save your sister, Jude.”
He grins, then disappears into the crowd.
By the time the party starts, I’m long gone.
Snow whispers against the windows, and the pines creak in the wind. I kick off my boots by the door, hang my coat, and start a fire. The flames catch slow, filling the room with that comforting woodsmoke smell.
The silence stretches. I should feel satisfied. The project’s on schedule, the event went off without disaster, and I’ve got an entire night ahead to rest.
But my body won’t settle. My hands twitch like they need to be busy, like I’ve forgotten how to be still.
I make myself a drink—bourbon, one cube of ice—and sit on the couch. The firelight flickers across the walls, catching on the framed photos.
I stare at the one of Claire standing in front of the old workshop, paint streaking her cheek, hair up in a messy knot. She’s laughing at something I said, though I can’t remember what anymore. That part’s gone, faded like the print.
My chest tightens.
It’s been almost a year since I last watched our home videos. I kept them on a hard drive, tucked behind a stack of old sketchbooks.
But tonight, maybe because of the snow, or the way Norah’s flowers smelled like something alive and dying at once, I feel the need.
I dig out the drive, plug it into the TV, and scroll through the files. There’s a folder labeled “Projects.” Another labeled “Us.” I click the second.
The first video opens with static and laughter.
Claire’s voice fills the room, bright and warm. “Ryker, are you filming again? You promised no camera while I’m working!”
“Can’t help it,” I hear myself say from behind the camera. “You look too good when you paint.”
She laughs, and the sound hits me like a punch. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by canvases, a smear of blue across her wrist. She’s wearing my old flannel, sleeves rolled up.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, dipping her brush in paint. “Come help me instead of hiding behind that thing.”
The video shakes as I move closer. She reaches out, paintbrush aimed at the lens.
“Say you’ll help.”
“I’ll help.”
“Say you love me.”
I hesitate just long enough for her to grin.
“See, even the camera knows you’re a liar.”
I can hear the smile in my voice. “I love you.”
“Good,” she says, and flicks paint at me. The screen blurs blue, her laughter filling the room again.
The video ends.
The next one starts automatically. Claire again, outside this time, the light gold and soft. She’s sketching the view of the river from the ridge. Her voice is quieter here.
“You ever think about forever?” she asks off-camera.
“Not really.”
“You should.”
I swallow hard.
The fire pops. Snow drifts past the window, glowing in the moonlight.
I watch another, then another. Each one a tiny slice of a life I can’t get back—her dancing barefoot on the porch, her showing me the new mural she painted in town, her sleeping under sunlight, half-covered in one of my shirts.
It hurts, but I don’t stop.
When the last video fades to black, the room feels hollow again. The only sound is the crackle of the fire and the wind pressing against the glass.
I pour another drink and sit back, eyes burning.
Claire’s laughter lingers in my ears long after the screen went dark.
People tell you grief dulls with time. They don’t tell you that it changes shape. That it moves quieter, waits for the moments you think you’re safe, then breathes down your neck.
Outside, a fox cries somewhere in the woods. I close my eyes and let the sound echo.
I imagine she’s still here—paint under her nails, head resting on my shoulder, humming some tune I’ve forgotten.
Then the fire snaps, pulling me back to now.
I take a long sip of bourbon and whisper into the empty room, “Miss you, Claire.”
The flames answer with a low hiss, like they understand.
I let myself feel it—all of it. The ache, the love, the silence after.