Chapter 45 Abilene
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Abilene
Friday
The house always knows before I do.
It creaks differently. The air feels thinner, like it’s already started letting go. Even the light coming through the kitchen window looks less settled, slipping across the table instead of resting there.
Mara’s suitcase sits by the door, scuffed and practical and far too final.
She’s moving around the kitchen with ease. Rinsing her mug, wiping the counter, folding the dish towel the way Grandma always did.
Careful. Efficient. Familiar.
It makes my chest ache.
“You don’t have to rush,” I say, leaning against the counter. “You’ve still got time.”
She glances at me, one eyebrow lifting. “I’m not rushing. I’m… avoiding the part where I get emotional.”
I manage a small smile. “Right. Because that would be very out of character.”
She snorts, but her smile doesn’t quite settle. “Don’t spread that rumor.”
The kettle clicks softly as it cools.
“I talked to Evelyn,” I say, because if I don’t say it now, I might not say it at all.
Mara stills, just for a second. But I see it.
I’ve been seeing pauses a lot lately.
“She told me things,” I continue. “About Mom. About the fire. About… everything.”
Mara exhales slowly, like she’s been holding that breath since the moment she walked back into my life. “That makes sense. If anyone was going to tell you, it’d be her.”
I swallow. “Why didn’t you?”
She looks at the window instead of me. At the hives. At the place where my mother used to stand with honey on her fingers and a song stuck in her head.
“I didn’t know how.”
I don’t argue. I just nod.
“She said Mom wanted to leave,” I say quietly. “Not because she didn’t love me. Because she did.”
Mara’s shoulders sag a little at that. “Bonnie loved you more than you know,” she says. “She just didn’t know how to survive where she was.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “Did you know she was unhappy?”
Mara hesitates. Then shakes her head. “Not like that. I knew she was struggling. I didn’t know she was desperate.”
That word settles heavy between us.
“And Grandma?” I ask. “Did she ever tell you anything after?”
Mara’s mouth tightens. “No. She shut down. That’s how she coped.”
I nod. I grew up inside that coping.
“I wish I could give you more,” Mara says, softer now. “But I don’t have the missing piece you’re looking for. And some things… some things your grandmother kept to herself on purpose.”
Disappointment flickers through me, sharp but expected. Like touching a hot pan you already knew was hot.
“I’m not angry,” I say, surprising myself with how true it feels. “I just don’t like not knowing.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You always did ask too many questions.”
I smile faintly. “Someone had to.”
Mara grabs her coat, then hesitates before pulling me into a hug. It’s quick. Tight. The kind of hug that says, “I don’t know how to do this better.”
“Take care of yourself,” she murmurs. “And don’t let the past tell you who you are.”
“I won’t,” I promise, even though I’m still figuring out how.
She leaves. The door closes softly behind her.
The house exhales.
I stand there for a long moment, listening to the familiar sounds settle back into place. The refrigerator hums. The floor creaks. The bees keep working as if nothing has changed.
Mara gave me pieces.
Evelyn gave me context.
But the center of it, the thing Grandma hid, the truth she wrapped in recipes and routines, still waits somewhere just out of reach.
I sit at the table and open Grandma’s journal again. My fingers trace the margin notes, the smudged ink, the small reminders of a woman who loved fiercely and quietly.
Somewhere in here, there’s more.
I still don’t know why Evelyn told me to look at the places my grandma worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted, where she taught me patience.
I line the journals up the way Grandma used to line up her hive boxes. Oldest to newest, spines straight, no overlaps.
Then I pull my mom’s letters from the drawer and set them beside the journals in a separate pile. I’m afraid they’ll contaminate each other if I mix them too soon.
I start with the journals again, listening for tone instead of content.
Most of it is the same as always.
Hive three stronger after rain.
Queen spotted. Calm temperament.
Too much smoke makes them irritable… less is more.
Comforting. Familiar.
Then…
Where the workers rest, the queen keeps her truth.
I read it again.
And again.
My brain tries to sort it the way I sort bees. Worker. Queen. Rest. Truth.
“That’s not how you talk about bees,” I murmur aloud, as if she might answer.
I flip forward.
Another one, tucked between a recipe for salve and a note about mites:
Sweet things survive fire best when sealed.
My stomach tightens.
Fire.
I reach for my mom’s letters without meaning to.
I open one at random, then another, until I find the one that’s been sitting heavy in my chest since Evelyn handed it to me.
Evie,
Mom seals everything like she’s afraid the world might steal it if she blinks. Honey, wax, recipes, even grief. She says it keeps things from spoiling. I think it keeps things from breathing.
My pulse stutters.
I glance back at the journal.
Sweet things survive fire best when sealed.
“Okay,” I whisper. “That’s… that’s something. A connection… right?”
I jot the line down on a scrap of paper, then flip more pages, hunting now.
Follow the hum, not the noise.
What’s passed hand to hand is rarely written down.
Jewel is a word that means more than shine.
My fingers curl against the edge of the table.
I flip through another of my mom’s letters, heart racing now. Maybe I’ve finally found the right thread to pull.
Sometimes I think the town loves the idea of treasure more than the truth. Jewels sound exciting. Dangerous. Worth killing for.
But real value is quieter. It feeds people. Keeps. Preserves.
I suck in a breath.
What the hell does all of this mean? Why is it such a riddle? There has to be more of a connection somewhere, I just can’t seem to find it.
It’s out of reach no matter what I do.
I spread everything out again, paper everywhere, the table disappearing under generations of handwriting. I draw arrows on my scrap paper, circle words, cross things out.
Workers rest.
Queen truth.
Sealed.
Preserved.
Passed hand to hand.
Not written down.
I try to think like Grandma.
Try to think like Mom.
Try to think like a beekeeper instead of a granddaughter.
And that’s where it stops.
Because every time I think I’m close, I hit the same wall: I don’t know what I don’t know.
I don’t know where Grandma would hide something important if she didn’t want it found too easily.
I don’t know which buildings she thought of as extensions of the hives and which were just buildings.
I don’t know which of these phrases are metaphors and which are instructions.
I press my palms flat to the table, breathing through the sudden tightness in my chest.
“I can’t do this alone,” I admit to the empty kitchen.
The words feel like failure for half a second.
Then they feel like relief.
I gather the journals and letters into my arms, clumsy and uneven, and stand so fast my chair scrapes loudly across the floor. I don’t bother fixing it.
The ranch feels closer than usual, leaning toward me instead of waiting.
By the time I reach the yard, I can hear them.
Jesse’s laugh carries first as he spins Caleb and Eliza around. Wyatt’s voice follows, calm and measured, explaining something with his hands.
Marshall’s quieter, but he’s there.
I stop at the edge of the group, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must look, arms full of paper like I’ve just robbed my own house.
They all turn.
“Hey,” Jesse says immediately as the kids run off to chase one another. “You okay?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Then try again.
“I think my grandmother left clues,” I say.
Wyatt straightens like someone just rang an alarm bell inside him. “Clues to what?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “That’s the problem.”
Marshall doesn’t say anything yet. He just watches me.
I set the journals down on the nearest table, pages fanning out, and pick one up with hands that are shaking more than I want them to.
“She wrote things in the margins,” I explain. “Not… instructions. Not exactly. More like hints. Like, ‘Where the workers rest, the queen keeps her truth.’”
Jesse blinks. “That sounds like either a riddle or something my kid would write for extra credit.”
Wyatt frowns thoughtfully.
Marshall’s mouth twitches. “Sounds like someone who didn’t want to be obvious.”
I nod, heart pounding. “There’s more.” I flip to another page. “‘Sweet things survive fire best when sealed.’”
Jesse’s smile fades.
Wyatt’s expression sharpens. “Fire?”
“My mom mentioned sealing things,” I add quickly, grabbing one of the letters. “She said Grandma sealed everything. Honey. Wax. Recipes. Even grief.”
Wyatt takes that in, eyes moving between the papers, already mapping possibilities.
Marshall exhales slowly. “So this might not be about jewels?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think it ever was.”
Jesse rubs the back of his neck. “Okay. So if it’s not jewels, what are we talking about? Money?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say, frustration creeping in despite myself. “That’s why I’m stuck. I can see pieces, but I don’t know how they fit.”
Wyatt leans closer, careful not to touch anything. “You’re doing the right thing by stopping here. This reads like someone thinking in systems, not sentences.”
Marshall nods once. “You need outside eyes.”
Jesse grins faintly. “Preferably ones who aren’t emotionally attached to the world’s most cryptic grandma.”
I huff a weak laugh. “Exactly.”
I look at all three of them, nerves fluttering hard in my chest.
“I need help,” I say honestly. “I think this means something. I just don’t know how to unravel it without… missing the obvious.”
Wyatt’s answer is immediate. “I’m in.”
Jesse doesn’t hesitate either. “Same. I love a good mystery. Especially the kind that doesn’t involve murder.”
Marshall meets my gaze last.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”
I don’t know where this trail leads. I don’t know what my grandmother hid, or why she chose riddles over answers.
But I’m not standing at the edge of it alone anymore.