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By morning, the unease had thinned to something I could almost ignore.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and burnt toast. Harvey stood at the counter in a half-buttoned shirt, his hair a wild mess that suggested he had slept in his lab again. A battered duffle slumped near the back door, zipper straining against the weight of his field kit.
“You’re up early,” I said, snagging a piece of toast.
“Big day,” he muttered, attention buried in his satchel. “Somebody’s gotta keep the lights on around here.”
“Ghost jobs?”
Harvey shrugged, expression shifting into the weary professional mask he wore for clients.
“House calls in Carbon County. Then I’m swinging through Salt Lake to meet a buyer for one of the prototypes. Apparently, the living pay better than the dead.”
I bit into my toast, watching him. “How long?”
“Three days. Maybe four.”
He reached over, leaning down to kiss the top of my head.
“Ford’s around if you need anything. Just don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
By the time I finished my juice, the duffle was over his shoulder, and his coffee mug had been rinsed. He paused at the door, adjusting the strap of his bag, his eyes lingering on me with a flicker of concern.
“If you need me, cell service will be spotty,” he said. “Don’t wait up.”
He always said that before a job that bothered him.
Hearing it now, with the name Winter Quarters still echoing in the hollow places of my mind, made the kitchen air feel thin.
When I slid into the wagon for the short drive to school, his truck was already gone.
The senior lot was singing when I pulled in. Penny’s laugh carried across the pavement, bright and impossible to miss. She and her small crew were lounging against her sedan, looking like a curated spread for a teen magazine.
“Madeline!” Penny called, shading her eyes against the morning glare. “We were just debating whether coffee counts as a meal.”
Tess lifted her venti cup like sworn testimony. “It has oat milk. That’s protein.”
I forced a smirk, but my eyes drifted toward the red brick building at the edge of campus. The blinds completely covered the windows. The doorway was a hollow shadow.
“Hey,” I said, turning back to Tess. “Did you find anything more on that new transfer student? Heaton?”
Tess pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Paperwork came in. Last name’s Dashwood. Old-fashioned, right? Homeschooled, mostly.”
She took a slow sip, unbothered.
“He’s from Scofield.”
I blinked. “Scofield? People still live there?”
“Speaking of old-fashioned,” Penny said, nudging me with her elbow, “my mom is doing one of her big Sunday dinners. You’re coming. Save me from being interrogated about my life choices.”
“I’ll see if I survive the week first.”
“Or,” Penny said, eyes sparkling with mischief, “we throw a rager at your place while your dad’s out of town.”
“Terrible idea.”
“The worst,” she agreed. “But not impossible.”
The bell rang, scattering the crowd toward the main building.
First period was a wash. The projector light turned the classroom into a dim cave, and my notes dissolved into anxious doodles. My thoughts kept circling back to the filing cabinet.
The empty folder.
The name that felt far too heavy for a high school roster.
Heaton Dashwood.
The morning blurred into empty hallways and false alarms. I scanned every face between classes, looking for a dark coat or a glimpse of silver-storm eyes, but the halls stayed frustratingly normal.
By the time I slid into State History, my inner skeptic had fought its way back to the surface. I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it all—the frost, the threats, the way the air seemed to bow to him. It was just first-day nerves and Harvey’s ghost stories.
An overactive imagination with too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
The bell hadn’t even stopped ringing when the room tightened.
The atmospheric pressure dropped so abruptly it felt like a hand squeezing the air from my lungs. My skin prickled. The fine hairs on my arms lifted in the sudden, artificial chill.
I didn’t have to look at the door to know.
I forced myself to look anyway.
He moved past the rows of desks with a silent, fluid stride. He didn’t glance at the teacher or the students whispering in his wake. He walked straight to the back corner and took the same seat as yesterday.
One heavy boot hooked around the desk leg, and he fell into it with a careless sprawl, looking as if the laws of physics were merely suggestions he chose to ignore.
When his eyes lifted—storm-gray and terrifyingly unhurried—they found me instantly.
Coach Baker tapped a marker against the board, oblivious to the subzero front moving through the third row.
“Alright, people. Semester projects. Ghost towns. Pick one, partner up, and try not to tank each other’s GPA. No repeats.”
Names vanished beneath his eraser.
Topaz.
Eureka.
Silver Reef.
My pulse raced.
I don’t know why I did it—maybe it was the empty folder, maybe it was the frostbite still nipping at my neck, or maybe it was the fact that every person who told me to stay away only made the place feel more like a locked door.
Before logic could catch up to impulse, my hand was in the air.
“Winter Quarters.”
Baker’s marker stopped midair.
He turned, blinking at me as if I had spoken in a dead language.
“Wait. That’s not on the list. Did you find a hidden gem, October?”
The room shifted.
In the corner of my eye, Heaton’s tapping finger froze.
I forced a casual shrug, heart slamming against my ribs.
“Just wanted to give it the ol’ October try, Coach. Figured I’d find something that wasn’t already on a Wikipedia page.”
A few kids laughed.
Baker’s grin broadened. He had a notorious soft spot for my dad’s brand of obsession.
“The ol’ October try,” he echoed, chuckling. “Alright. Ambitious choice for a senior project, but let’s make it interesting.”
The marker squeaked as he wrote the name in bold letters at the top of the board.
It looked like a scar.
“And who’s the soul brave enough to be your partner on a blind dig?” Baker asked, scanning the room.
Julian, two rows over, straightened, mouth already opening.
He never got the chance.
“I’ll take it.”
The voice came from the back of the room.
I turned.
Those silver eyes were already waiting.
He hadn’t moved an inch. He still looked far too relaxed, but his fingers had stopped tapping. One hand rested flat against the desk now, like a predator pinning down a map.
“Perfect,” Baker said, capping the marker. “Let’s see what you two dig up.”
Julian went still, the last of his hope snuffed out.
I looked down, my pen hovering uselessly over the page, my pulse vibrating through the plastic barrel.
I had spent my whole life avoiding the lines Harvey drew in the dirt.
But as the temperature in the room dropped, I realized I hadn’t just crossed one.
I had crossed the only line Heaton had warned me not to.