Chapter 17
THATCHER
Iturn on the monitors to the security feed from the mill in my home office.
It’s supposed to be a second bedroom, but I converted it years ago. I live alone.
Don’t need the space.
What I need is eyes on what’s mine.
This—this—has become my nightly ritual.
How I feed my obsession.
It’s not unusual for me to check the mill from here.
Equipment is expensive. Theft happens. Weather does damage faster than people ever could.
But that’s not why I’m doing this now.
I’m doing it because of her.
Because I need to know she’s safe.
I don’t know what Willow Esposito is running from. I don’t know the full shape of her past or the things that put that shadow in her eyes.
She hasn’t told me—and I won’t force it.
But I can still watch.
I can still protect.
This is how I do it without crossing lines.
Without knocking on her door under the excuse of concern.
I sit here, drink my coffee, eat the turkey sandwich I slapped together for dinner, and tell myself this is reasonable.
Necessary.
I flip through the feeds one by one. Yard. Sawmill floor. Loading bay. Road access.
Then her cabin.
The image is grainy but clear enough. Snow blowing sideways. The light above her door glowing dimly against the white.
And then—pop!
A sharp flash of light near the generator housing.
Sparks.
Then darkness.
The feed stutters as the power drops, the camera switching to battery backup.
“Fuck.”
I’m already standing, chair scraping back hard.
Generators don’t just die quietly.
Not in weather like this.
A sudden pop like that means a surge, a short, or a fuel-line issue.
Could be ice buildup.
Could be a bad connection.
Worst case?
Fire.
That generator feeds her cabin.
No power means no heat. No lights. No hot water.
In this storm?
She’ll freeze.
I don’t even think. Boots. Coat. Keys. All muscle memory.
I shove my feet into thick socks, sturdy boots, grab my gloves off the hook by the door, and yank my coat on so hard I nearly tear the zipper.
The snow is already piling up outside, wind howling like it’s got teeth.
The road down the mountain is narrow and winding, half-plowed at best.
Fifteen minutes in good conditions.
This is not that.
I don’t care.
I slam the truck door and fire up the engine, tires already fighting for traction. As I pull onto the road, I punch in her number—the one she wrote on her application.
The one I saved to my cell without letting myself think too hard about why.
It doesn’t connect.
No ring. No voicemail. Nothing.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as the wind rocks the truck.
My heart is pounding hard enough to feel in my throat, breath coming sharp and fast.
Hold on, Baby Girl.
I’m coming.