Chapter 11 Sawyer
ELEVEN
Sawyer
My heart was pounding in my chest. I was about to walk a household name celebrity into my little fixer-upper like it was no big deal.
She was probably used to mansions with wine cellars and staff who ironed your pillowcases.
Meanwhile, this place still had drywall patches and a suspicious creak in the hallway.
But she didn’t bat an eye as we pulled up.
The house sat right between Woodstone and the next town over, Shadow Ridge, tucked into a quiet stretch of road.
It looked like it had been lifted straight off some cozy countryside Pinterest board—one of the ones I’d never admit to scrolling through at two in the morning.
It had white clapboard siding, a deep porch with wide stairs, and one of those old school metal roofs that made rainstorms sound like home.
The flower boxes under the windows were still empty, and a massive willow tree stood off to the side, near the clearing. Just beyond that, a pond shimmered in the morning sun. It was quiet, the type of place that made even a chaos-brained guy like me want to kick off his shoes and stay a while.
I didn’t give a damn about the house’s history.
Sure, I'd heard the stories everyone in Woodstone loved to tell.
The place had been sitting vacant for years, ever since that tragedy with the young boy and his father.
I was just starting out in my career when it happened, but I still remembered how the whole town became obsessed with every detail.
Half the people called it a freak accident; the other half couldn't resist spinning darker theories.
For months, you couldn't walk into The Lodge or the post office without someone bringing it up, dissecting every rumor.
No one wanted the place after that. Said it was cursed.
Haunted. Touched by something you couldn’t scrub out with bleach and paint, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t believe in ghosts or small-town legends.
Noah told me I should sage the place before I moved in.
I told her I’d consider it, mostly to keep my brother’s girlfriend from showing up to do it herself.
This house was mine now, bad stories, ghosts, secrets, and all.
I rounded the car and opened Ellie’s door. She slipped her hand into mine as she stood, and for a moment, neither of us moved to drop it.
She smiled shyly and glanced at the house. “It’s beautiful.”
“Needs a little work, but the bones are there. Want to go inside?”
“I’d love to.”
I led her up the front steps. The key stuck in the lock, and I jiggled it until the door creaked open. The inside smelled like cedar as sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that had probably been white once.
“Wow,” she whispered. “You’re right. It’s got great bones.”
She stepped farther into the house, and I followed behind her. The floorboards creaked as we moved through the front room, past a stone fireplace and walls that bore the faded outlines of what once hung there.
I hadn’t changed much to make it mine yet, only cleaned it up some. For now, it was quiet until the contractors were set to start in a few days.
“You can almost hear the stories in the walls,” she whispered.
I gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, well…hopefully not literally.”
She shot me a grin over her shoulder, and that alone made the whole damn room brighter.
We kept walking past the living room, down the hall, through the little kitchen that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper meal in years. The counters were chipped, the cabinets a faded yellow that might’ve once been cheerful, and the sink was deep enough to bathe a puppy—or a baby.
Ellie stepped back into the living room with worn wood floors and windows overlooking the willow tree and pond.
Her foot landed on a floorboard near the center of the room. It shifted with a loud clack then see-sawed back into place.
She froze. “What the hell?”
Oh, shit.
She crouched, tugging at the board. It gave with a soft creak, revealing a shallow hollow beneath. Ellie peered up at me, eyes wide with a glint of curiosity.
She reached inside.
“Careful!”
“Why?” She laughed, halfway into the floor already.
“There might be... I don’t know. Spiders. Or, like, a raccoon’s nest.”
Or a journal best left untouched.
“I’m not scared of spiders,” she said, grinning.
“Well, I am.”
She pulled out the leather-bound book from inside the hole. “Have you ever seen this before?”
I shook my head. “Yeah, I found it when I was checking out the place. Gave me the heebie jeebies, so I put it right back.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of the book. The leather cover was cracked. No title., just a single initial pressed into the front.
“L?” she said. “Who’s L?”
“No clue.” I scratched the back of my neck.
She opened it. Pages full of looping handwriting filled the inside.
“Who used to live here?” she muttered.
“Uh…funny story.”
She glanced up. “Why do I feel like you're about to say something horrifying but try to make it sound chill?”
“Well…this place sat empty for years. No one wanted to buy it because…a boy and his dad died here.”
“What?” she said, her voice squeaking. “Here?”
“Yeah. Out there, I think,” I gestured to the willow tree. “There was some kind of accident. Kid got a hold of a gun, and well…you can guess the rest.”
Her brows pinched, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “The boy? Oh no.”
“Yeah. The whole town went nuts about it for a while, but in the end, they called it a tragedy. Said it was an accident. Case closed.”
She held out the journal. “Look at this.”
I sat beside her, trying not to think about how close she was and about the way she smelled like flowers and sunlight. Or how pretty she looked when she thought hard about something.
She handed me the book. “Here. Read this.”
I fought against the pull to study her face and glanced down at the book.
I can’t remember the last time this house felt like a home. Some days, it’s just a place I keep clean enough for people to stop asking questions. Other days, it’s a cage.
They said I was lucky. Nineteen and already taken care of. Our families had been tied together for decades, the kind of ties people whisper about but never question. They all nodded, smiled, and said he was solid, a man who’d build a good life for me. They forgot to ask what I wanted.
Except he doesn’t care about me. I’m something he owns. A body, a name, a quiet life he can control. A late meal, a slammed door, a fist hitting the table because I spoke out of turn. Because I laughed too loud. Because I paused too long.
His words cut before he raises a hand, and sometimes, they cut after. It’s always a warning, always a reminder I don’t belong to myself here.
Even the people who hover at the edges of our lives—people who open doors and never meet my eyes—remind me he’s untouchable. His reach stretches farther than these walls, and I know better than to believe anyone would step in.
I watch his hands, I measure my words, I keep my head down. I know the moment I falter, I’ll pay for it. Even in the silence, even when he’s gone, I can feel the weight of what’s coming. Every day is survival.
I think about leaving more than I say out loud. Not because I have somewhere to go, but because I want to know if there’s a world past these walls.
“What the hell?” I muttered, glancing up.
Ellie watched me with her brows knitted. “When did this all happen?”
“Six, maybe seven years ago. Why?”
“Because this doesn’t sound like an accident. This sounds like a woman who was terrified for her life.”
“They did a full investigation.” I shrugged.
“But how does a little boy get hold of a gun? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t know. I try not to think about it. Bad juju and all.”
“What if there’s more going on here?”
“Maybe, but maybe it’s just one perspective. People say a lot of things when they’re scared.”
She flipped to the next page, but I snatched the book from her hands.
“Hey!” She glared. “Sawyer, give it back.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “No, little miss true crime.”
“You’re not even a little curious?”
“Nope, but I like that you are. It’s…cute.”
Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink that made me think about what else I could do to put that color there. She schooled her expression and scoffed. “Don’t distract me with flattery.”
“Is it working?”
Her breath hitched slightly, and the space between us felt smaller than it should have. I could see it in her eyes—the way the corner of her mouth twitched, like she wanted to say something but held back instead.
She reached for the journal again, and I pulled it away. My mind reeled thinking of ways to get her to come back to Woodstone. She looked like she belonged here, and I selfishly wanted to keep her.
“Let’s make a deal,” I said.
She crossed her arms. “A deal?”
“Mhm.”
“Like our fake dating deal?” She cocked her head.
“Sort of, but this one’s different. We only read a journal entry when we’re together, here, in this house.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because if we read them all at once, we’ll jump to conclusions. We’ll miss something. This way, we take our time. Look at things objectively.”
Yeah, that sounds legit, right?
“You don’t believe that.”
“No, I really don’t. I just want to see you more often.”
She chuckled. “So this is your master plan? Lure me back to Woodstone?”
“Exactly.”
“I have one condition,” she said.
“Lay it on me.”
“Let me read one more. Just this once. Then, we do one entry each time.”
“Fine. One more, and then we put it back.”
“And if it turns out this is something bigger?” she asked. “If this journal points to something more than a tragedy, what do we do?”
“I’ll talk to my brother.”
“The detective?”
“Yeah, and he hates digging up old cases.”
“Well then, we’d better make this worth it.”