Before I get too comfortable.
Before I start believing I belong here.
Before I fall in love with him and his precious daughter.
Sunlight filters through the kitchen windows, catching the tiny specks of flour floating in the air as I mix pancake batter. The scent of butter lingers from the first batch, warm and rich. Maddie sits at the table in her pajamas, her curls wild from sleep, chubby fingers clinging to her stuffed pony.
“Lala wants pancakes,” she says, swinging her legs, her voice still thick with sleep.
I smile, pouring the batter onto the hot skillet. “Does Lala eat anything else? Maybe some scrambled eggs?”
She scrunches up her nose, thinking hard. Then shakes her head. “Nope. Just pancakes. And sywup.”
“Well, Lala has great taste,” I say, flipping the pancake. The sizzle fills the quiet kitchen, mixing with the soft clinking of Maddie’s spoon as she stirs the milk in her little cup.
Outside, Hopper is with the horses, checking on the one we saved last night. The poor thing could barely stand when they pulled him from a burning barn two towns over. Hopper worked through the night, his hands steady, his voice low and calm as he treated the burns and wrapped his legs. The way he spoke to the horse, like he could will him to keep fighting, did something to me—something I don’t want to name.
Maddie stretches her arms out wide. “I wanna hug the horsy.”
I glance at her, smiling. “He’s still sore, baby. But maybe later, when he feels better.”
She slumps, resting her cheek on the table. “I be gentle.”
“I know you will,” I say, plating the pancake and setting it in front of her. “But he needs rest, just like you do when you don’t feel good.”
Maddie picks at the pancake, humming to herself. “Daddy make him all better?”
I glance out the window, watching Hopper move through the pasture, his broad shoulders relaxed but purposeful.
“He’s trying,” I say softly.
And just like that, the ache in my chest returns, creeping in like an old wound that never quite healed. Because if I stay here too long, I might not want to leave at all.
The thought barely settles before the door opens, Malerick striding in with purpose, Hopper right behind him. There’s no pretense, no soft lead-in—Malerick doesn’t waste time sugarcoating anything.
I’m standing in Hopper’s kitchen, my arms crossed over my chest, trying not to let my nerves show. Malerick leans against the counter, his expression grim. There’s a stiffness in his posture, a tension that matches the heaviness of his words.
“The land’s been used,” he says, his tone flat but edged with frustration. “Not just once, Nysa. Multiple times. It looks like they’ve been coming back, probably since you left the house unattended.”
My stomach twists, and I grip the edge of the counter for support. “Used for what?”
His lips press into a thin line, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud. “Human remains. Burials. We found one, but the way things are looking, it’s not going to be the last.”
The room spins for a second, and I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay upright. “On my land?”
Malerick nods. “On yours. But there’s enough overlap with Hopper’s property that we’re going to have to go through both. The areas are remote, hard to monitor, which makes them perfect for . . . this.”
He waves a hand vaguely, but I know what he means. My land—my home—is being used as a dumping ground for bodies.
I want to scream, to cry, to grab something and throw it, but all I can do is stand there, my nails digging into the counter as I try to process what he’s saying.
“So, what now?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“We’re bringing in a team,” Malerick says. “Specialized equipment, dogs, the whole nine yards. It’s going to take time to comb through the area, but we need to make sure there’s nothing else out there.”
I nod slowly, the words settling over me like a suffocating blanket. “And me? Where am I supposed to go while all of this is happening?”
Malerick exchanges a glance with Hopper, who’s been sitting silently at the kitchen table, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
