There’s no shortage of names, not in Honeysuckle Grove. Some folks never forgave the Marsh family. Thought the whole lot of them were poison.
Lo included, even when she was the one who blew the whistle.
I’ve heard the way people talk when they think no one’s listening. The way they twist the story into something easier to swallow. Villain instead of victim.
But setting fire to her house? That’s not just talk.
That’s a warning.
She’s not safe here.
I mask my growl with distance as I march around the property, scanning the perimeter again and forcing my brain to quiet. I try to see it as a blueprint instead of a crime scene. But the moment I look back across the yard, where Lo still sits wrapped in that thin blanket as if it’s armor, every bit of logic disappears under the pull of something more primal.
She looks like she’s been whittled down to nothing but nubs. Smoke-streaked hair pulled into a loose knot, blanket bunched tight in her fists, her whole frame curled in on itself, waiting for the next blow.
Mason’s crouched next to her, speaking low and steady, coaxing her to let him see the damage on her arm. She’s shaking her head, not defiant, just resigned. None of this surprises her.
Maybe she’s been waiting for it.
I cross the yard with slow, grounded steps, boots crunching over gravel slick with ash and runoff. She hears me coming, looks up just before I reach her, and I catch it, whatever she’s been trying to hold back.
There’s recognition in her eyes. But there’s something else, too.
Guilt, maybe. Or relief. Or both tangled together in that way she always had, where she never let anything land without second-guessing it.
“You sure you’re alright?” I ask, keeping my voice level. Not soft, but steady enough to hold onto.
She nods once, but it doesn’t mean anything. Her grip tightens on the blanket, knuckles white. She’s not cold. She’s trying not to come apart.
“Did you see anyone?” I ask, keeping the words even. “Anything out of place before it started?”
She hesitates. Her eyes flick toward the dark space beyond the fence line before they come back to mine.
“I thought I heard something,” she says slowly. “At the back of the house… I don’t know. It could’ve been a raccoon. Something moving through the brush. I was half asleep.”
But her voice dips near the end, and I know she’s holding back. She doesn’t want to make it real by saying it aloud.
She knows.
And I know that she knows.
But I don’t press. Not yet.
Someone set that fire, and whether it was revenge, punishment, or just some sick warning doesn’t matter.
Because if they were trying to scare her off, they made a mistake.
They lit it under my watch.
And whatever they were hoping to get out of it, they’re going to have to deal with me now.
I watch her for a long moment, even after Mason moves to grab more supplies. She’s barely blinking, shoulders tight beneath the blanket, like she’s afraid if she loosens her grip on the moment, she’ll fall right through it.
Her legs are drawn up as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her body hasn’t caught up with what just happened, and she’s hovering somewhere between shock and collapse.
I know the signs. I’ve seen them in the field… seen them in the mirror.
She’s not going to ask for help, and she won’t fall apart where someone can see. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need someone to meet her where she is and hold the edges steady.
