Chapter 12 Jude
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jude
I should have stayed in Fox Hollow.
That’s the first thing that hits me as I sit on the tailgate of my truck, watching Maisie eat her ice cream like it’s the only good thing left in the world.
We’re parked outside Frosty Cone, the only place open this late in the season, neon sign flickering against the snow. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that comes after shouting.
Rufus bounds through the parking lot in wide, useless circles, tail wagging hard enough to rattle his whole back end. He dives nose-first into a drift and comes up snorting.
Maisie giggles once, the sound faint and thin, then goes back to staring at her cone.
It’s strawberry swirl, her favorite. I got vanilla, mostly so she wouldn’t feel guilty eating hers.
She’s small for eight, wrapped in my hoodie that nearly swallows her whole, curls sticking out of a pink beanie. There’s a smear of chocolate on her cheek from the cone she abandoned back at the house when everything went to hell.
I rub a hand over my face. “You doing okay, bug?”
She shrugs. Doesn’t look up.
“She’s loud,” she says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I say. “Your mom and Luke get loud sometimes.”
Maisie nods, the motion slow. “He broke the picture.”
I close my eyes. The picture—Amber’s framed sonogram. I saw it lying on the floor when I walked in.
Luke was standing there, his jaw clenched, and Amber was crying while Maisie was pressed against the wall with her hands over her ears.
That was fifteen minutes ago.
Now we’re here, me trying to scrape together calm from the bottom of the barrel while Amber promises she’ll call “once things settle.”
I look at Maisie again. “You did good leaving the room, okay? You were brave.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps licking the melting ice cream.
Rufus trots back, tail wagging so hard he smacks my knee. He’s enormous, a slobbering golden retriever who has never understood the concept of personal space. I scratch his head automatically.
“Good boy,” I mutter, though he’s anything but.
Maisie pats his back absently. Rufus plops down beside her, resting his giant head on her tiny knees.
I pull in a long breath, the cold biting my lungs, the faint smell of sugar and exhaust mixing in the air.
Amber’s house looked like a war zone when I showed up. Clothes on the stairs, toys scattered, Luke shouting from the kitchen about how “this wasn’t what he signed up for.” Amber shouting back that he never signs up for anything.
They’ve always been that way—fire and fire.
I don’t know why I keep thinking I can put out their flames.
Maybe because I’ve been doing it since we were kids.
She was the loud one, the beautiful disaster, always chasing the next thrill. I was the quiet brother with my nose in a book, patching things together behind her.
Mom used to call me her “little old man.” Dad called me her shadow.
And when our parents died in a car accident twenty-two years ago, I became her safety net.
Every time she fell, I was there. Paying rent. Fixing cars. Making sure Maisie had shoes that fit.
The last time Amber disappeared, Maisie was four. She left a note with just three words: I’ll get better. I kept it in my wallet until it turned soft from the fold.
Maisie stayed with me for six months. Six months of cartoons and pancakes and bedtime stories I didn’t know by heart but learned anyway.
She was bright then. Talkative. Laughing.
Now she’s quiet. That’s what scares me most.
“Uncle Jude?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Are we going home soon?”
I hesitate. “Let’s not worry about that right now. Eat your ice cream. Mom just needs to rest.”
She nods but doesn’t look convinced.
The snow’s coming down heavier, thick flakes sticking to the windshield.
Fox Hollow’s two hours away. I drove here after Amber called, crying about Luke, thinking I could fix it. Now, watching Maisie sit small and silent beside me, I realize I can’t fix anything.
“I should’ve stayed back,” I murmur.
Maisie looks up. “What?”
“Nothing, sweetheart.”
Rufus sneezes, spraying both of us with melted snow. Maisie laughs for real this time, a quick burst of sound that makes my chest loosen.
“Gross,” she says.
“Yeah, he’s disgusting.”
Rufus wags harder, proud of himself.
I can’t help smiling a little. “Come on, finish your ice cream. Then we’ll get on the road.”
Two hours later, we’re back in Fox Hollow.
Maisie’s asleep in the backseat, head tilted against the window, Rufus drooling on her shoulder. I sit there for a minute, listening to her breathe, the hum of the heater filling the truck.
She doesn’t deserve any of this.
Claire would’ve said that, too.
She loved Maisie like her own, used to bring over paints so they could make a mess on my porch. She and Ryker would talk for hours about someday—someday when the business took off, when there was time, when they could start their own family.
That someday died with her.
I shake the thought away before it can dig its claws in.
The town’s still dressed for Halloween—lanterns hanging from porches, half-frozen pumpkins lined up along the sidewalks. The community hall glows faintly in the distance, the black flowers Norah strung up now brittle and rimmed with frost.
I drive past it without slowing down. I’m not ready to think about work, or the mess waiting there, or the silence that’ll hang between Ryker and me when he sees I brought Maisie again.
He’ll understand, though. He always does.
I park in the narrow space between the two cabins and sit there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cools.
Ryker’s porch light is still on. There’s a half-finished mug of something steaming on his railing, which means he’s awake.
Of course he’s awake.
“Alright, bug,” I whisper, reaching back to shake Maisie’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
She blinks at me, disoriented. “Home?”
“Close enough.”
Rufus wakes with a stretch and a yawn that sounds like a small engine starting up.
I grab Maisie’s bag, her sketchbook, and Frida, her stuffed rabbit that’s missing one ear, and usher her toward the porch. The boards creak under our boots.
The door to my cabin sticks a little in the cold, but it gives way with a shove. The familiar scent hits me—pinewood, sawdust, coffee gone stale.
The lights are soft, the air warmer than I expected. I left the heater on low before I left. A rare smart move.
Maisie steps inside, blinking around. “It smells like pancakes.”
I smile faintly. “Probably because I forgot to clean the pan last time.”
She giggles, barely, and that’s enough to keep me going another day.
I set her bag down by the couch, shake the snow off my jacket, and turn toward the window when I catch a shadow move next door.
Ryker’s pacing in his living room. He’s on the phone, shirtless, a towel around his neck. Probably just finished a late run. He glances up, sees me, and nods once. I return it, a silent exchange we’ve perfected over the years.
You good?
Yeah. You?
Barely.
I start the kettle, more out of habit than need.
Maisie curls up on the couch, clutching Frida to her chest. Rufus flops down beside her like a living rug, his tail thumping once before he passes out again.
She’s quiet again. Too quiet.
I lower myself onto the armchair, elbows on my knees.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head. “Mom and Luke are mad.”
“Yeah.”
“She said he doesn’t listen.”
“Sometimes grownups fight,” I say, knowing how hollow it sounds. “It doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”
Maisie looks at me, unblinking. “Did you and Aunt Claire fight?”
The air leaves my lungs. It’s been almost two years, but hearing her name still hits like a sucker punch.
“Sometimes,” I say finally. “But we always made up.”
She nods, thoughtful. “She used to make snow angels with me.”
“I remember.”
“She said she wanted a baby.”
I swallow. “She did.”
Maisie studies me like she’s measuring truth. “You still miss her.”
Every damn day.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I still miss her.”
She leans against the couch arm, eyelids drooping. “I miss her too.”
Within minutes, she’s asleep again, face half-buried in Rufus’s fur.
I sit there for a while, staring at the soft rise and fall of her back, the faint crackle of the heater filling the silence.
Then a knock rattles the door.
I sigh. “Of course.”
Ryker steps in without waiting for an answer, a habit I should’ve broken him of years ago. He’s still in sweats, hair damp, shoulders tight with that restless energy he carries everywhere now.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He glances at the couch, at Maisie. “Amber again?”
“Yeah.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
He whistles low. “Shit.”
“Luke walked out. She says it’s temporary. I don’t buy it.”
“She always finds the edge of disaster,” he mutters. “You okay?”
I nod, though it’s a lie. “She’s fine for now. Just… quiet.”
He looks at Maisie for a long moment. “She looks older.”
“She acts it, too.”
Ryker leans against the doorframe. “You taking time off?”
I shrug. “Just a day or two. The hall project’s ahead of schedule. Dorian can manage without me for forty-eight hours.”
He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the armchair opposite me. “You should’ve called me. I’d have come.”
“Didn’t want to drag you back into her mess.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s family.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s the problem.”
We sit in silence for a while, listening to the snow tap against the windows. Outside, the wind’s picking up, low and steady, like it’s humming some forgotten tune.
Finally, Ryker says, “You remember the time she stole my dad’s truck?”
I groan. “She was sixteen. I was thirteen. He made me ride with him to find her.”
“Found her at the lake,” Ryker says, smiling faintly. “Drunk off peach schnapps, blasting Zeppelin.”
“She threw up on his boots.”
“She threw up on you,” he corrects, laughing quietly. “You covered for her anyway.”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “Guess I never learned.”