Chapter 1
The Night He Came
Summer
It’s after midnight when I hear her.
Mama. Crying.
Even with the sound of it muffled by the walls, it cuts through my skin like glass.
The house has been too quiet for too long. Lately, quiet doesn’t mean peace—it means something is breaking where I can’t see. I slide out of bed, my feet finding the cold wood floor. I move slow, careful to miss the loose board that groans under my weight.
Papa’s voice comes from the kitchen, rough at the edges.
“I didn’t think taking the case would bring this to our door, Elaine.”
Her reply is ragged. “You knew what kind of men he was tied to. Jacob warned you, Michael.”
“I knew what he’d done,” he says. “That’s not the same as this.”
I press my ear to the wall. The plaster is cool, but thin enough for their words to slip through.
“She’s just a girl,” Mama says, and her voice splinters. “Our girl.”
A hard clatter hits tile. I flinch.
“You want the whole street to hear?” Papa snaps. “We’re keeping her safe. That’s all that matters.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Mama says, quieter, fiercer. “She hasn’t stepped outside alone in weeks. No school. No friends. This isn’t safety—this is a cage. She’s starting to ask questions. We need this to stop.”
A chair scrapes. Footsteps cross the floor and stop. When Papa speaks again, his voice sounds as heavy as a verdict.
“I can’t fight them with the law, honey. We take Jacob’s offer… or we lose her.”
After a pause, Mama’s words come out in a scrape. “You think he’s safe? You’ve seen the way he looks at her. She’s scared of him… you know this!”
Silence. Then Papa replies, “He’s the sheriff. And right now, he’s the only person we can trust.”
Trust? I press my nails into my skin and hold still.
Doors slam in my head—memories of being watched, controlled flood back—and every one of them wears his shadow on the other side.
If danger has a face in this town, it’s his.
I can’t stay in the shadows anymore. I step into the doorway.
They both look up—Papa tense, Mama with eyes red and wet.
“What’s going on?” My voice is steady enough to surprise me.
Mama immediately bows her head into her hands, her back pulsing with the strain of tears. But Papa doesn’t look away. He rubs his thumb along the table’s edge, like he’s bracing. He sighs—long and drawn out—it comes straight from the depths of his core.
“There’s something you need to see, Summer.” Papa runs his hand through his thinning silver hair and looks down to the floor. “Come down here, honey.”
I take the stairs one trembling step at a time, every movement loud in my ears. Each footstep feels like a punishment. I stop by the dining table, too anxious to sit, worried that I might not be able to rise again.
Mama turns suddenly. “Michael—”
“She has to know,” he says without taking his eyes off me. “Otherwise, she won’t understand why this is happening.”
My heartbeat climbs high and tight. “Understand what?”
Papa pushes away from the dining table and turns to open the bottom drawer of the sideboard. He takes out a thick, battered envelope and sets it in front of me, his hand lingering.
“What’s in here isn’t hearsay, honey. It’s proof,” he tells me. “Proof that we are all in danger.” A beat. “Especially you.”
A cold prickle gathers at the back of my neck.
“Whatever you see,” he adds, “you can’t unsee. But you have to look. You have to understand what we’re up against.”
He slides the envelope toward me and lets his hand fall away. I open the flap, my fingers catching on the rough paper. Photographs spill across the table—some faceup, others I flip.
Papa outside the grocery store, arms full of bags.
Mama on the porch, pegging laundry to the line.
Me leaving school.
Me in the park with Adelaide, her mid-laugh while I sip from a straw.
Then one that freezes my breath—my pillow at a familiar angle. Hair across my cheek. Eyes closed.
I’m asleep.
The photo shakes in my hand. My mouth tastes metallic.
Someone stood over my bed. Close enough to touch me. Close enough to hear me breathe.
I turn it over. The words are carved into the paper in jagged block letters:
Take one of ours, we take one of yours.
I drop the photo like it burns.
“When was this taken?” My voice is thin, unable to hide the fear.
“We don’t know,” Papa admits. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “Could’ve been weeks ago. Could’ve been last night. It landed on our doorstep an hour ago. The others started coming weeks ago.”
The air in the kitchen grows heavy, pressing against my chest.
“And what are the cops doing about it?” My voice comes out thready, vulnerable.
Papa’s hands tremble as he tucks the photos back into the envelope. His wedding ring catches the light, a dull gleam against skin gone pale.
“The sheriff is helping us, Summer. But there’s only so much he can do.
These men, they’re not easy to find.” He lets out a slow and steady breath.
“Jacob carries a Colt Python on his hip and sleeps with a shotgun by his bed,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper.
“The Kellerman boys crossed him once. They don’t even drive through our county anymore.
No one dares set foot out of line around him…
Baby… I know you don’t want to, but… he’s all we’ve got. ”
I look at him—the man who used to stand between me and the tide when the waves came in too fast—and realize what he’s saying. He’s about to hand me to someone I’ve been trying to get away from for years.
“He’s offered to take you into his home and protect you,” he huffs, “and right now, we don’t have any other choice. We’ve tried to keep you safe here. We’ve done everything we can.”
A rush of electricity crawls from my toes all the way up to my head. I feel the surge of dread, the cold sweat building on my skin—my fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive.
“I’m twenty years old,” I say, steady. “An adult. You can’t sign me over to the sheriff like I’m evidence in one of your cases.”
He lowers his voice. “Adulthood doesn’t make you bulletproof, Summer. I won’t gamble your life to make a point. You’re leaving with him tonight.”
Through the blur of tears, I can still read the shape of Mama; it’s small and certain, the way a silhouette looks when the light has already chosen its side.
I want her to offer a choice, to fold me into her arms and say no, but she only shakes her head—not pity, not apology—and I feel something inside me crack.
“Mama,” I croak, waiting for some sort of answer to come from her.
She rises from her chair and wipes away her tears with her palms.
“Come, honey. Let’s get this sorted.” Mama guides me gently, hand clutching my elbow, up the stairs and into my room without a word.
The door clicks shut behind us. She reaches up, fingers brushing against chipped paint, and hauls the battered blue suitcase from the top shelf of my wardrobe.
“Mama, you don’t have to do this,” I whisper, voice trembling.
She flips open my dresser drawers and lifts a rumpled T-shirt, folding it into a precise rectangle.
“Please… just stop and listen,” I beg, stepping closer.
She tucks the shirt into the suitcase’s cavernous belly and slides a soft cotton sweater on top, avoiding my eyes. “I am listening,” she mutters, fingertips grazing each crease.
“Then you know Jacob is—” My throat closes, and I press a hand to my chest. “He’s… weird. He’s been lingering around, finding excuses to pop in. He stares.” The words tumble out faster. “He hovers behind me in the kitchen, leans over my shoulder at the table. I don’t like it.”
Her hands pause mid-fold, then settle the sweater and move on. “He’s our sheriff, Summer. He’s able to protect you. That’s all this is.”
“It’s not about him protecting me, Mama. He shows up at church. He corners me by the well in the yard.” I drop the sock back into the drawer. “You’ve seen him. Papa’s seen him.”
She exhales, smoothing a pair of pajamas into a neat stack. “He cares about our family, which includes you. You’re thinking too much into this.”
“This isn’t caring,” I snap. My voice echoes off the walls. “It’s stalking. Standing too close, leaning in to whisper…”
“Enough,” she says, soft but final.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, watching her dismantle me, one fold at a time. Each item she tucks away is another barrier between who I am now and who I’ll be when I leave.
She crosses to my desk and plucks my Blackwood acceptance letter from the corkboard. The paper trembles in her hand. She smooths it flat, slides it on top of the clothes, and zips the suitcase shut with a single pull.
“You’ll still go,” she reminds me, “when it’s safe.”
A laugh bursts from me—short, wrong. “Safe? You’re sending me with a fucking stalker?”
She picks up the suitcase, testing its weight, her lips a thin line. Refusing to acknowledge my statement.
“You could say no,” I plead, standing. “Tell Papa to find another way. You’ve said no to him before.”
Her knuckles whiten on the handle, eyes flickering toward the window. “And if refusing brings those men out of the shadows? If they come for you…?” She shakes her head. “I can’t say no. Not this time.”
I swallow. “Jacob isn’t the answer,” I whisper. “He’s another problem.”
Footsteps sound in the hall. Soft at first, but then become harder, more deliberate.
Papa appears in the doorway, keys in one hand, expression stony. “He’s on his way.”
I spring up. “No. I can hide… stay in the attic—get an officer at the door—”
Papa’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t up for debate, Summer. You’re going with him, and that’s final.”
Papa’s decision reverberates in the air. Mama’s mouth is a parchment-sealed envelope; nothing more will escape her tonight. My heart, frantic and traitorous, beats against the tight skin beneath my collarbones.