Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was near dusk when Mama’s voice called out across the James family farm, the way it used to when Amara was little and late coming in from the barn.
“Amara! Honey! Come on now.”
She paused mid-stroke, brushing dried mud from the stallion’s good flank, casting Brock a glance. He stood nearby with a coil of rope over his shoulder, watching with the quiet patience he always had around her.
“She must’ve just woke up,” he murmured, nodding toward the house where the porch light blinked on and off like a pulse.
“Yeah,” Amara said. “Let’s go see.”
They left Corrie in the barn and stepped up to the porch just as Mama opened the screen door, smiling vaguely, eyes glassy and unfocused in that way Amara had come to dread.
“Oh, Amara,” Mama said, clasping her hands together like a child seeing a surprise guest. “Did you visit some friends yesterday? I didn’t see you at all. Were you bartending again? You work too hard, baby.”
Amara froze. Her throat closed around something sharp. “No, Mama,” she said gently, ushering her inside. “I wasn’t working.”
“Well, come in now. Supper’s a little late but I made something. Fell asleep—silly me. You too, Riley.” She looked past Brock and smiled like she was seeing a ghost.
“Sure thing, Miss G,” he said kindly, stepping in behind Amara. “Especially if there’s fried chicken involved.”
That made her laugh—a sweet, fleeting sound—and Amara led them both into the kitchen where the overhead light buzzed faintly and the table was set for three, crooked silverware and paper napkins.
Mama had thrown together a classic—cornbread, creamed corn, skillet-fried chicken, green beans soaked in bacon fat, and a lemon pie made yesterday with its meringue sagging slightly.
They sat down. Passed plates. Ate.
Amara kept glancing at her phone every few minutes. Nothing new. She opened her thread with Ethan again—his last message was hours ago, just after he’d driven off with Juniper fucking Hollis. She’d replied, but nothing had been delivered.
Her chest tightened.
Then finally she typed, You okay? Just checking in. Wish you’d say something.
She hit send but the message hung there, stuck in the ether, just like the others. Not delivered.
“Something wrong?” Brock asked quietly, glancing over his fork.
Amara shook her head. Forced a bite of cornbread. “Nothing,” she lied. “Just tired.”
But her stomach twisted with unease. Something was off. Something was wrong. And if Ethan didn’t respond soon, she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to sit still.
Even with the sweet taste of home on her tongue, everything felt strange.
Mama leaned back in her chair, her tea glass sweating in one trembling hand. Her gaze drifted between Amara and Brock like she wasn’t quite sure which decade she was in. Her smile came slow and lopsided.
“You know,” she started, blinking slowly, “this reminds me…back when your daddy brought that boy home. Ethan. Lord, he was all boots and bone and bad attitude. You remember?”
Amara froze, fork midway to her lips. She glanced at Brock, whose jaw twitched slightly as he set his glass down.
“Wasn’t much older than you are now,” Mama continued, her voice loose, drifting.
“Wiry little thing. Quiet. Always watching the corners. He wouldn’t look me in the eye for three meals straight.
Thought I was gonna hex him or feed him chicken feet or somethin’.
” She chuckled faintly, the sound brittle.
“And then your daddy told me he’d been sleeping on a cot in a supply closet for weeks—weeks, Amara—and I thought, well, now. That just won’t do.”
She reached blindly for the pitcher in the center of the table, nearly tipping it before Brock caught it and poured for her.
“Thank you, Riley,” she said softly, patting his hand.
Brock gave a polite smile.
“I made that boy a bed,” Mama said, nodding to herself now, “put a sheet on it so tight you could bounce a nickel, just like your daddy taught me. I remember…I remember the next morning, he sat right here—right where Riley’s sittin’—and said, ‘Ma’am, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had.
’ Just like that. Ma’am. Polite as a preacher but lookin’ like he was born inside a thunderstorm. ”
Amara felt her throat tighten.
Mama’s eyes glazed, her smile fading as she trailed off. “Sometimes…sometimes I think he never left. Not really. Sometimes I hear that old truck out front, and I think maybe it’s him comin’ back. Like he just went to the feed store. Just a boy out gettin’ grain.”
Silence. Sharp and painful.
Brock cleared his throat. “Miss G, I can go check on the feed shed if you want? Make sure the lock’s holdin’.”
Mama blinked at him, confused. “The feed shed? No, no, Sarge does that.” Then she paused. Her face crumpled slightly. “No, he don’t.”
Amara reached over, squeezing her mama’s hand gently. “It’s okay, Mama. We’re here.”
“I know, baby.” Mama’s fingers tightened. “But sometimes…I get all the ghosts tangled up.” She let out a long sigh. “All these good men at my table. Just like it used to be.”
The room felt heavier somehow, the memory like molasses sliding through Amara’s chest.
Mama stood from the table with a soft groan, clutching her tea glass in one hand and steadying herself on the chair with the other.
“I’m just gonna get my night meds,” she said with a distant smile, drifting like smoke toward the cluttered kitchen counter.
Amara stilled, eyes tracking her mother’s slow, uneven steps. Something in her gut twisted. Not fear. Not yet. Just a bone-deep ache of unease.
Brock caught it too. She felt it in the air between them—the stiffening. The look he shot her. She nodded once, subtle, and he rose from the table without a word.
He moved easy, casual, the way a contractor might cross a site to check a bad line of trim. But when he reached her mother, the air sharpened.
“What’re you taking there, Miss G?” he asked gently, peering over her shoulder.
Mama chuckled, sorting through the tangled mess of orange bottles on the counter. “Oh, I don’t know anymore. I just take what the doctor gives me. Lord knows I can’t keep track. They’re color-coded, see?” She held one up like it was proof.
Amara pushed up from the table.
Brock turned the bottle in his hand, squinting at the label. “This one says Lincoln James.”
Time stopped.
Amara felt it hit her like a shotgun slug to the chest. The kitchen reeled, the edges of the world tilting as the name registered.
“No—no, that can’t be right,” she said, voice breaking like glass. She crossed the floor in three steps, snatching the bottle from Brock. Her eyes scanned the faded white label, the pharmacy stamp, the dosage.
Lincoln James.
Her father.
Her dead father.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered.
Mama blinked at her, unbothered. “It’s always been there, baby. You know that. Doctor said to take ’em with supper.”
Amara stared at the bottle, bile rising up her throat. These weren’t hers. These were his. And he’d been dead a year. And Mama—God, Mama had been slurring more, losing time, slipping between memories like wet cards on a table.
She’d been taking his meds all this time. Why?
“Mama,” Amara gasped, “how long have you been taking these?”
Her mother only smiled again, slow and fragile. “I take what’s in the box. Every night, same as always. Don’t fuss now.”
Amara staggered back a step. “Jesus. Jesus—Brock, she’s been—these aren’t hers—”
Brock was already checking another bottle, jaw clenched. “These are heavy narcotics. Is she doing this on purpose?”
The breath left Amara’s lungs. Her hands were shaking. Her skin crawled. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Fuck. She’s been drugged,” she choked. “She’s been fucking drugged.”
It hit her all at once—the haze in her mama’s eyes, the confusion, the mood swings. The night her father died. The story they’d been told. A quiet overdose, they’d said. After all, he had demons. They’d said it like it was fate.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if he didn’t overdose?
What if he took the wrong pills?
Or worse—what if someone gave them to him?
“Oh my God,” she whispered, eyes flooding. “Oh my God.”
The edges of her vision went white. The farmhouse spun.
“Amara,” Brock said, catching her elbow.
She yanked away. “No,” she snapped. “No, don’t—don’t you touch me. This was in my house. This was right here. And I—” She choked, fury boiling with grief. “I didn’t see it. I didn’t fucking see it.”
The pill bottles hit the kitchen counter with a clatter like bones in a box. Amara poured them out in a furious cascade—yellow, white, blue, green. Labels so old the ink was faded. Some her mama’s. Some…not.
Lincoln James.
Again. Again.
“Jesus Christ,” she hissed, shaking the last bottle empty. “Jesus Christ.”
The clink of capsules was deafening. Her hands trembled as she shoved them across the counter like filth, knocking one to the floor. She went to stomp on it—like it might fight back.
“Amara,” Brock said low behind her.
She spun. “Don’t.”
He raised both hands, calm but not backing down. “Listen to me. You need to breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she snapped. Her chest heaved. “You think I’m just gonna stand here while my mother is drugged up on my dead father’s fucking prescriptions? You think I’m gonna calm down?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Because if you don’t, I can’t fix this.”
That stopped her—barely. Her teeth clenched. He came closer, cautiously, like she was a spooked colt in a corner stall.
“You’re spiraling,” Brock said. “And I get it. I do. But I need you to let me help.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he beat her to it.
“I’m taking her to the ER,” he said, steady and sure. “I’ll bring every damn bottle. I’ll tell them what happened. I’ll make sure she gets bloodwork and tox screens and a proper doc who isn’t just pushing pills.”
Amara’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “You’re not taking her alone.”
Brock stepped closer, voice lowering. “You can’t come like this, Amara. Look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking. You’re flushed. You’re talking too fast. You think they’re gonna let you walk into a hospital screaming about a conspiracy with expired pills? They’re gonna think you’re crazy, and that’ll make it worse.”
She blinked fast. Her vision swam.
Brock softened. “I’m not trying to shut you down. I’m trying to get you in the fight smart. Right now, you’re too angry to think straight.”
Her lip trembled. She turned away, breathing hard.
“You can’t save her if you’re the one they put in the psych hold,” he said gently.
Her head dropped. One shaky hand braced against the counter.
“Let me do this, Mar.”
Silence.
Then, finally, she nodded.
“I’ll take her in right now,” he said, already gathering up the bottles into a zip-top bag from the drawer. “You stay here. Take a bath. Lock the door. Let this sit for a minute.”
She crossed her arms tight over her chest, trying to hold herself together. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be,” he promised. “I’ll be back before midnight.”
Her eyes welled up again.
“I’ll text Ethan, too,” Brock added. “You don’t gotta carry it all.”
At that, she nearly crumpled again—but held it together.
Brock kissed her temple like a brother. “You’re not crazy, Mar. You’re just finally seeing the truth.”
And then he was helping Mama with her coat, all gentle smiles and soft-voiced jokes. And Amara stood there, half in the shadows, shaking like a match.
She waited until they were gone.
Then she slid down the cabinets and wept like a storm.
* * * *
The house was too quiet.
That kind of quiet that hums in your ears and fills your chest like static.
Amara sat on the edge of her bed with the lamp off, her hands clasped between her knees. The faint scent of Ethan still clung to the pillow beside her—smoke, cedar, rain on leather. It hit her harder than it should have.
She pressed her face into it anyway, breathing him in until it hurt.
There was no sound from the road. No headlights sweeping across the wall. No truck pulling up.
No Mama humming in the kitchen. No Brock.
Just ghosts.
All of them.
She thought about the day her daddy brought Ethan home—the wiry Marine with too many shadows in his eyes—and how he’d sat right here on this porch years ago, boots muddy, eyes sharp, and heart all caged up.
And how she’d loved him anyway.
“Stupid,” she whispered to herself. “God, you’re so damn stupid.”
The old house creaked in reply. The air smelled like rain on metal. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders and lay down, facing the wall. Her body was bone-tired but her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
No word from Ethan.
No word from Brock.
Her mama somewhere in a hospital, maybe detoxing from her dead husband’s medicine.
Every thought circled the same black hole. How did it all end up like this?
She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The faint glow of lightning filtered through the thin curtains.
It flickered once.
Then again.
Then the rain came.
Slow at first, like fingers tapping glass. Then harder. Angrier.
The storm rolled in over the ridge, thunder rattling the windows. The room pulsed with each strike, her pulse rising to meet it.
She shook when the loudest crack split the sky—heart hammering, throat dry, hands clutching the sheets.
For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was. She thought she heard Ethan’s voice, low and rough, saying stay down, baby, but it was just the wind in the trees.
Her breath came fast.
Then slower.
Then she curled up, burying her face in that same pillow, the one that still smelled like him.
She whispered into it, raw and broken, “Please come back. Please.”
Outside, thunder answered.
She cried until she couldn’t anymore, until the storm softened into a lullaby. Then, finally—mercifully—sleep took her.
And for a few hours, she dreamed of him.
Of safety.
Of being found.