Chapter 41
Normal settles in slowly.
Not all at once. Not comfortably. But enough that I almost start believing that, for the first time, everything is going to work out. Be normal.
A week has passed without any confrontation. Colter doesn’t push. John doesn’t pry. Pace pretends everything is fine. I stay at Colters sleep in his bed, wake up to his arm heavy around my waist. My favorite mornings are when he wakes me with his face between my legs.
It feels…stable.
Which is probably why I let myself leave.
Suttons insists we go into town. She needs supplies for the house and claims she’s tired of relying on John’s “bunker mentality”. I don’t argue. I need the air. The movement. Something that isn’t the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on my chest.
John insists on a driver.
Sutton doesn’t argue. She’s used to it, but it still feels weird to me.
We sit in the back of the black SUV as it rolls down Main Street, the afternoon sun glinting off shop windows and old brick buildings. Sutton leans forward between the seats, pointing out things like she’s a tour guide.
“That bakery on the corner?” she says. “Best apple fritters you’ll ever eat. Worst coffee.”
I smile. “That seems contradictory.”
“Crimson Ridge is full of contradictions.”
We stop at the first hardware store. The bell over the door jingles when we step inside, and conversation dips. Not dramatically or enough to call out, but enough that I feel it. Eyes flick our way. Whispers stall.
Sutton notices.
She always does.
“Ignore them,” she murmurs as we walk the aisles. “They’ll find something else to talk about by dinner.”
I nod, pretending it doesn’t sting. We load a basket with lightbulbs, extension cords, screws Sutton doesn’t actually need but insists she might someday.
At the register, the cashier’s smile tightens when he sees us.
“Sutton,” she says, her eyes hard as she stares at her.
“Put it on John’s account,” Sutton says smoothly.
The woman blinks, recalibrates, and the tension eases enough to let me breathe again.
Next is the home goods store which is all flannel throws and overpriced candles. Sutton holds one up to my nose.
“Smell this.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That is not pumpkin spice. That’s regret.”
She laughs, loud and unselfconscious, and for a moment I forget where I am. Who I am. We argue over colors and textures like normal women doing normal things.
And I feel normal.
I’ve never done this before. There aren’t an abundance of friends to be made when your mother is a junkie and the whole school knows it.
We leave with bags cutting into our hands and head back toward the SUV. The driver takes them without comment, stowing everything neatly in the trunk.
As we pull away, Sutton kicks off her boots and stretches her legs across the seat. “Colter’s gonna hate that candle.”
“He hates joy,” I point out.
She grins. “True.”
The radio hums softly, some classic rock song I recognize but can’t name. We pass the diner, the feed store, the gas station on the corner where an old man watches us go by a little too closely.
I turn my head.
“Do you ever get used to it?” I ask suddenly.
Sutton glances at me. “Used to what?”
“Being watched.”
She exhales slowly. “No. But you learn who matters. Who is truly on your side and who is only next to you because of what you represent.”
I nod, rolling that around in my head.
The SUV slows.
Not dramatically, but enough to notice. Crimson Ridge isn’t a place you experience traffic.
I glance out the window and catch sight of a truck idling at the curb, engine rumbling low. The drivers face is obscured by the glare of the windshield, but something about the scene causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.
“Is there usually this kind of traffic?” I ask.
Sutton shrugs. “Not really—”
The world explodes sideways.
Metal slams into us with a violent crunch, glass bursting inward as the SUV jerks hard to the left. My shoulder collides with the door, pain detonating down my arm. Sutton screams my name as everything tilts, spins, then slams to a dead stop.
My ears ring. My vision blurs.
I try to breathe but can’t find the air.
Blood erupts in my mouth.
“Peyton—are you—"
The passenger door is ripped open.
The driver shouts something sharp and furious before he’s dragged backward, disappearing from view. I barely register it. My focus narrows, sharp and frantic, locking onto the open space where safety vanished.
My door opens next.
Not Suttons.
Mine.
My heart stutters.
A man leans in, blocking out the light. He’s not from Crimson Ridge. I know it instantly. His movements are too clean, too purposeful. His eyes flick to my face like he’s confirming something.
Like he’s found what he came for.
“No,” I gasp, scrambling backward.
He grabs my arm.
Pain blooms as he hauls me out of the SUV. I kick, twist, scream, the sound raw and animalistic. I reach for Sutton, fingers brushing air as she shouts my name again, terror tearing through her voice.
“Peyton!”
Someone slams the door shut behind her.
The street erupts into noise — horns, shouting, footsteps — but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m already underwater.
The man drags me toward a van parked too perfectly, engine running.
I fight harder.
“Let me go!” I scream, desperation clawing up my throat. “You’ve got the wrong—”
A hand clamps over my mouth.
“Shh,” a voice murmurs close to my ear. Calm. Certain. “No. You’re exactly the right one.”
Then it hits me.
This isn’t some mix up.
This isn’t some random wrong place at the wrong time.
This is about me.
I’m thrown inside the van, metal biting into my back as the door slams shut. Darkness swallows me whole. The engine revs, the vehicle lurching forward as my fists slam uselessly against the walls.
I scream Sutton’s name until my throat burns.
The van accelerates.
And as Crimson Ridge disappears behind us, one thought cuts through the terror, sharp and undeniable…
Maybe my father and Colter were right.
And now I’ve dug too deep.