Owen’s mouth twitches like he wants to agree but won’t. “Technically, no. But you might want to file your paperworkquietly before word spreads. The Blackwells don’t like surprises.”
Too late for that.
I follow him down the steps as he checks the foundation near the east wall. “You grew up here?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Born and raised. Left for a few years, came back when my dad retired. Your uncle was… different. Traditional, but fair. Most people respected him.”
“Most,” I echo.
He gives a noncommittal shrug. “The Blackwells respected him enough not to cross him outright. But now that he’s gone…”
“They think they can run me off.”
He straightens, meeting my gaze. “Can they?”
“No,” I say simply.
A smile flickers. “Didn’t think so.”
We walk the perimeter together, the morning sun sharp against the damp grass. He points out water lines, notes the slope of the land, and marks where drainage might need rerouting. His professionalism is steadying—for a while.
But that uneasy feeling won’t leave.
Every time he turns his back, I catch myself glancing toward the tree line. The ridge road glints faintly beyond the vines, hidden and open all at once.
His phone rings and he frowns at the screen, then walks a short distance away, taking the call.
I slowly turn, my eyes coming the area. The feeling of being watched still haunts me.
“Something wrong?” Owen asks as he steps beside me, following my line of sight.
“I thought I saw movement,” I admit, embarrassed by how tense my voice sounds. “Probably a deer.”
He frowns, scanning the trees. “You’re pretty exposed up here. Anyone driving that road can see the whole property.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’ve noticed.”
He scribbles something on his clipboard, then lowers his voice. “Word of advice, Miss Voss—if you plan to stay, get cameras. Good ones. And keep your doors locked.”
“I already do.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “And, uh… You might get a visit from Tristan Blackwell before long. He’s been asking about you.”
The words hit harder than I expect. “Asking?”
“Wanted to know if I was inspecting the ridge properties. Said he likes to keep the access roads safe.” Owen hesitates. “He’s not subtle, if you catch my drift.”
I swallow, my heart thudding in my throat. “Maybe he’s just being neighborly.”
Owen gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it. “Maybe.”
We finish the inspection, his tone easy again, but I can tell he’s watching me carefully—like he’s measuring how deep I’m already in.
When his truck finally pulls away, I stay on the porch long after the sound fades. The wind moves through the vines, whispering over the wet leaves.
For a moment, I let myself believe I’m imagining the feeling of being watched, the hum of awareness that starts at the base of my neck and won’t fade.
But then I see a flash of movement at the far edge of the trees. Dark. Subtle. There and gone.
