23. Abilene
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Abilene
Thursday
I don’t tell them right away.
We’re standing in my kitchen, the rain still dripping off jackets and boots, the house smelling faintly of damp wood and honey and that sharp, ghostly edge of smoke that feels like it’s soaked into everything I own.
Marshall has leaned against the counter, arms crossed, posture tight but controlled. Wyatt is near the table, setting his keys down carefully, trying not to startle me.
They’re waiting.
I can feel it.
Marshall’s eyes keep flicking to me. Wyatt’s quieter, but there’s a tension there too, the kind that comes from knowing something’s wrong and not yet knowing how bad.
I’m holding the envelope in both hands.
The paper is ordinary, the kind you could buy anywhere.
There’s nothing special about it, nothing that should make my chest collapse inward. Written on the front is my name, in careful, unfamiliar handwriting.
Marshall breaks the silence first. “You want to tell us what that is?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Wyatt steps in gently. “Abilene. You don’t have to. But if someone left something here, especially after the evacuation…”
He trails off, letting the implication hang.
After the fire.
After everything.
I swallow hard and finally nod. “It’s… it’s a letter.”
Marshall’s brows knit. “From who?”
“I don’t know.”
That earns me a look from both of them.
“I mean it,” I say quickly, the words tumbling over each other now that they’ve started. “There’s no return address. No name. Just… this.”
I set the envelope on the table, like it might bite me if I hold it too long.
Wyatt pulls out a chair and sits. Marshall doesn’t move, but his focus sharpens, the way it does when a storm shifts direction.
“You’ve gotten one of these before?” Wyatt asks.
“Yes, but I didn’t—” I say, too fast. “I thought it was someone confused. Or cruel. Or… I don’t know. I didn’t want to make it into something bigger than it was.”
“And now?” Wyatt asks.
I take a breath that scrapes my lungs on the way in. “Now I don’t know.”
I slide the envelope open with shaking fingers and pull out the letter inside. The paper is folded neatly, creased with care.
Someone took their time with this.
I don’t know why, but that makes me feel sick.
I unfold the paper slowly. I’m afraid the words might jump out and hurt someone if I go too fast.
“I’m just going to read it,” I say, mostly to myself.
Marshall’s jaw sets. Wyatt nods once, encouraging but cautious.
I clear my throat and begin.
“Abilene, I don’t know if you will read this.
I don’t know if you read my last letter either, but I feel compelled to keep trying.
” I suck in a sharp breath. “Most people panic after the truth shakes them. They tell themselves it’s coincidence, or grief, or someone else’s story that doesn’t really belong to them.
That would have been easier. It would also have been wrong. ”
My voice wobbles on the last word. I pause, swallow, and keep going, wondering what is going on.
“Your family has always been good at keeping things tidy on the surface. The version of events that fits neatly into conversations and obituaries and what gets said out loud. But there is another version, one that lived in pauses and closed doors and things that were never quite explained to you.”
Wyatt’s brow furrows.
Marshall doesn’t move at all.
“Your grandmother was not the woman people thought she was. Not because she was worse, but because she was braver.”
My chest tightens. I have to stop again, fingers curling around the edge of the paper.
Marshall exhales sharply through his nose. “That’s a hell of a thing to say about someone’s grandmother.”
Wyatt glances at him, then turns back to me. “Keep going,” he says softly. “If you can.”
I nod.
“She had secrets, and I don’t think she ever told you about these. Maybe to protect you, but I don’t know if protection is what you need. Same as her.”
That’s where my voice cracks.
I press my lips together, breathing through the sudden ache in my throat.
Marshall’s arms uncross without him seeming to notice. His hands land on the counter, palms flat.
“That’s not accidental language,” he says. “That’s someone who knew her well.”
Wyatt murmurs, “Or someone who thinks they did.”
I continue. “But there are truths that change how you see the people you love, and not everyone is willing to live with that shift.”
Marshall swears under his breath.
Wyatt’s gaze sharpens, glasses catching the light. “That’s… specific.”
“Your mother knew more than she said. She always did. She learned early which questions not to ask out loud. That silence cost her more than you realize.”
I feel like I’ve been punched.
My hands start shaking hard enough that the paper rustles. Wyatt reaches out, trying to calm me.
Marshall’s voice is rough now. “Whoever wrote this is implying your parents were lied to. Or agreed to lie.”
I nod faintly, unable to speak.
I force myself to finish.
“There is someone else who knows. Someone who stepped away before you were old enough to understand why. That distance was not indifference. It was survival.”
Wyatt looks up at me immediately. “That’s the line that matters.”
I already know.
“If you are wondering how I know this, it’s because I was there when choices were made that could not be undone. I watched people decide what you would and would not be allowed to know. I stayed quiet longer than I should have.”
Marshall straightens, every inch of him alert now. “That means proximity.”
“That silence ends with you.”
The words echo in the kitchen like a dropped plate.
I take a breath and read the last part, quieter now.
“There is something your grandmother left behind that was never meant to be hidden forever. If you want it, look where she worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted. Look where she kept what mattered but couldn’t be shared yet. Look where you learned patience.”
I furrow my brows in confusion. What does any of this mean? It’s so cryptic and weird. If someone wanted to help me, why like this?
“Signed, a friend.”
The paper trembles in my hands as I lower it.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Marshall breaks the silence. “Okay. First thing, this is not nothing. This isn’t some crank.”
“No,” Wyatt agrees quietly. “There’s too much restraint. Too much intention.”
I sink into the nearest chair because my legs have finally given up. “I don’t even know what to do with this.”
Wyatt leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Let’s start with what it isn’t. It’s not threatening. It’s not asking for anything. It’s not trying to rush you.”
Marshall snorts. “It’s rushing her. Just… politely.”
Wyatt shoots him a look, then softens it when he turns back to me. “What he means is… it’s nudging, not pushing. Whoever wrote this expects you to think.”
“And they expect you to act,” Marshall adds. “Eventually.”
I stare at the table. “They’re talking about my grandmother’s workspace. Her bee room. The shed. That’s where I learned patience. Where she taught me how to wait, how to listen.”
Wyatt nods slowly. “That tracks.”
Marshall’s gaze sharpens. “Is there anyone still alive who would’ve been around back then? Anyone who left?”
I hesitate.
“There’s my aunt,” I admit. “Mara. My mom’s sister. She left town after everything and never came back.”
Wyatt tilts his head. “And no contact since?”
“None,” I say. “No letters. No calls. It was like she vanished.”
Marshall’s mouth tightens. “That doesn’t happen without a reason.”
I rub my arms, suddenly cold. “I don’t even know how I’d find her.”
Wyatt leans back in his chair, fingers steepled loosely, eyes distant in that way that means his brain is already sorting possibilities into careful stacks.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Let’s take it piece by piece. The clues aren’t poetic for nothing. They’re directional.”
Marshall snorts. “Or they’re meant to feel clever while keeping whoever wrote it protected.”
“That too,” Wyatt allows. “So check the bee yard, right?”
My chest tightens. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” he presses. “If someone left something, and they expect you to find it—”
“Because it feels like a trap,” I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness in my voice. I drag a hand through my hair, frustration buzzing under my skin. “An… emotional one. Like if I open the wrong drawer or read the wrong page, everything I thought I knew is going to tilt sideways.”
“That might be true no matter when you do it.”
I laugh, brittle. “That’s not comforting.”
He gives me a small, apologetic smile. “I know.”
Marshall nods. “Alright. Then we don’t solve it today.”
I look up, startled.
“We don’t rip open old wounds while everything else is unstable,” he continues. “Fire just missed this place. You’ve barely slept. Your nerves are shot.”
Wyatt nods in agreement. “Your system’s overloaded. That’s when mysteries turn into spirals.”
Marshall shrugs. “Doesn’t mean we ignore it. Just means we pick our timing.”
Wyatt adds, “And when we do look, we do it intentionally. Together. With space to process whatever comes up.”
The thought of not being alone when I face whatever my grandmother left behind loosens a tightness in my chest.
Still, the frustration remains, sharp and restless. I hate not knowing. Hate feeling like my own history is sitting just out of reach, tapping on the glass.
But I hate this feeling more. The buzzing, unfocused panic that makes everything feel too loud, too close.
I push my chair back and stand. “You’re right. I can’t do this right now.”
Both of them look up at me.
“I mean it,” I say, pacing a few steps before stopping by the window. Outside, the rain has softened to a mist again, the world washed clean and raw. “If I keep pulling at this thread today, I’m going to unravel. And I don’t have time for that.”
Marshall studies me, then nods once. “So what do you need?”
The answer comes easily. Instantly. Like my body’s been waiting for permission to say it.
“My bees.”
Wyatt smiles faintly. “Of course.”
“They’ve been through enough,” I say, steadier now. “They don’t care about secrets or letters or who lied to who. They care about warmth and structure and being where they belong.”
Marshall grabs his jacket. “Then that’s the plan.”
I look between them, gratitude swelling so fast it almost hurts. “I need to get them back home. Today. Before anything else tries to pull my attention away.”
Wyatt stands, already reaching for his keys. “We’ll help.”
I nod, folding the letter carefully and slipping it back into the envelope. I set it in the kitchen drawer beneath my grandmother’s old recipe cards, where it can wait without being forgotten.
The mystery isn’t going anywhere. But neither am I.
For now, I choose the thing that’s always brought me back to myself. The steady hum, the quiet work, the certainty of living creatures who trust me to show up.
“Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s bring my babies home.”