Chapter 23 | Heather
Heather
M y heat had ended, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I stared down at them as they trembled around the handle of the wooden spoon, watching the oatmeal stick and clump because I couldn't maintain the steady rhythm that breakfast preparation usually required.
The familiar weight of the spoon felt foreign in my grip, as if my body had forgotten how to perform the simple tasks that had anchored my mornings for years.
The kitchen felt different in the pre-dawn darkness.
Shadows stretched longer than they should have, and every creak of settling wood made my shoulders jolt with tension I couldn't release.
Through the windows, I could see the faint outline of our rebuilt fence, but all I could think about was how easy it had been breached, how quickly our sanctuary had been violated by men who saw us as nothing more than merchandise to be collected.
I forced myself to take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scents that should have steadied me—cinnamon from the oatmeal, vanilla from Becky’s lingering scent, the lingering traces of my pack's combined presence.
But underneath it all, I could still smell gasoline and engine exhaust fumes, as if Jude's violence had stained the very air we breathed.
The spoon clattered against the pot as another tremor seized my hand.
I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white against the worn wood, and tried to summon the calm facade that had carried me through every previous crisis.
The children would be awake soon, padding downstairs in their mismatched pajamas and bedhead hairstyles, expecting the steady presence of the woman who'd never let them see her fall apart.
But I was falling apart. Had been since the moment I found out those men had forced their way through our door. Every protective instinct I possessed had gone haywire, leaving me jumping at shadows while trying to maintain the illusion that everything was still safe, still manageable.
From somewhere outside came the sharp crack of a hammer against wood, followed by Bennett's low voice discussing measurements with Dante.
They'd been working since first light to repair the damage, to restore the barrier between us and the world that had proven so fragile.
Each strike of the hammer made me flinch, my nervous system treating every sudden sound as a potential threat.
I tried again with the oatmeal, forcing my hand to move in smooth circles despite the way my pulse hammered inside my chest. The children needed breakfast, needed the routine that told them their world remained stable even when everything felt like it was shifting beneath our feet.
I could fall apart later, in private, where my terror couldn't infect their sense of security.
Footsteps on the stairs announced the first arrival.
Tomas appeared in the doorway, his thin frame wrapped in pajamas that were still too big despite Becky's recent shopping trip.
His hair stuck up in impossible directions, and he clutched the worn corner of his blanket like a talisman against the uncertainties of waking.
"Morning, sweetheart," I said, injecting brightness into my voice that felt like glass cutting my throat. "Did you sleep well? Any good dreams to tell me about?"
He nodded slowly, but his eyes were too serious for a child his age, scanning the kitchen with the same hypervigilance I'd been fighting all morning. "I heard loud noises," he whispered. "Scary noises."
My chest tightened with guilt that I hadn't been able to shield him from last night's violence.
"We will be okay," I said gently, spooning oatmeal into his favorite bowl, the one with painted flowers that had somehow survived both the earthquake and countless washings.
"Bennett and Dante are fixing our front door. Making it stronger than before."
The explanation seemed to satisfy him, but I caught the way his shoulders remained tense as he climbed onto his chair, the way his gaze kept darting toward the hallway where our broken entrance waited for reconstruction.
More footsteps announced the arrival of the others.
Loubie Lou bounded in with characteristic enthusiasm, her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm and her nightgown twisted sideways from sleep.
But even her perpetual energy seemed subdued this morning, her usual chatter replaced by uncertain glances between Tomas and me.
"Miss Heather," she said, settling into her chair with unusual quiet, "why does the house smell different?"
The observation hit me like a physical blow. The lingering scent of violence, of strangers who'd entered our space with hostile intent, had contaminated the air we breathed.
"We had some visitors last night," I said carefully, ladling oatmeal into her bowl while keeping my voice light and unconcerned. "Sometimes when new people visit, they leave their scents behind for a while."
“The mean men?” she asked.
I nodded, feigning a smile. She seemed to accept this explanation, but her grip on the rabbit tightened as she reached for her spoon.
Dylan appeared next, moving slowly and still showing signs of the cold Cole had been treating. His face was pale, but his breathing seemed easier than it had been in days.
"How's everyone feeling this morning?" I asked, distributing bowls with movements that felt too careful, too controlled. “Dylan, your cough sounds better.”
The forced cheerfulness in my voice rang hollow to my own ears, but the children responded with the resilience that had seen them through losses and upheavals most adults couldn't imagine. Dylan managed a small smile as he reported his chest felt less tight.
Outside, another sharp crack of the hammer against wood made me jolt enough to slosh oatmeal over the rim of the serving pot. The hot liquid splattered across my hand, and I bit back a curse while reaching for a dish towel, hoping none of the children had noticed my reaction.
But they had. I could see it in the way their conversations faltered, in the worried glances they exchanged when they thought I wasn't looking. Susie, who'd arrived a moment ago, kept watching my face with careful attention.
"Are you okay, Miss Heather?" she asked quietly, her voice carrying the responsibility of responsibility that came from being the eldest, the one who helped care for the smaller ones when the adults seemed fragile.
"Of course, honey," I replied, forcing another bright smile while my hand throbbed with minor burns. "Just clumsy this morning. Haven't had enough coffee yet to make my fingers work properly."
The lie came easily, but it tasted bitter on my tongue.
These children had survived enough adult deceptions to recognize when they were being managed rather than trusted with truth.
But what was the alternative? How could I explain that men had broken into our home and threatened to tear our family apart?
How could I burden them with fear that would steal their sleep and poison their sense of safety?
Denson slipped in during this exchange, his movements careful and measured as always.
He took his seat without comment, but I caught the way his eyes lingered on my face, reading the tension I was trying so hard to conceal.
Of all the children, he was the most perceptive, the one most likely to piece together adult troubles from scattered clues and worried silences.
"The door sounds like it's getting fixed real good," he observed. "Lots of hammering going on out there."
"Bennett and Dante know what they're doing," I agreed, grateful for the safe topic. "They'll have everything back to normal in no time."
But even as I said the words, I wondered if anything would ever feel normal again.
The children's conversation continued around me, their voices mixing with the background reconstruction. But underneath their chatter, I caught the whispered exchanges that confirmed my worst fears... they knew something was wrong, and my attempts to shield them were failing.
"Did you see those men last night?" Dylan murmured to Tomas, his words barely audible above the scraping of spoons against bowls.
"Scary voices," Tomas whispered back, his grip tightening on his blanket corner.
My heart clenched with the realization that their innocence had been damaged by exposure to adult problems they shouldn't have had to face.
But before I could figure out how to address their fears without making them worse, another thunderous crack of a hammer against stubborn wood made me flinch so violently that I knocked my coffee mug off the counter.
The ceramic shattered with a sound like gunshots, sending fragments across the floor and coffee streaming over the edge.
I stared at the mess I'd created, my hands shaking harder than ever, and realized that maintaining this facade was going to require strength I wasn't sure I possessed this morning.