“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.”
