I step past her, pausing only long enough to meet her gaze.
“It isn’t my blood,” I repeat. “But I’m about to spill a lot more. Go home, Roxanne. Go to Andi.”
Then I leave her in the hallway, the scent of rain and iron lingering in the air behind me, and I walk toward the war that has already begun.
Chapter 23
Roxy
The cottage is too quiet at two in the morning. Not peaceful-quiet the way it should be, but the sort that stretches every shadow and turns familiar rooms into something slightly off, slightly wrong. I remember feeling this way right after Andi was born, when we had our very own first apartment; everything was a threat, a thief or a murderer in the night; though it was always just stray cats.
Even the river sounds different tonight. Louder. Closer. As if the water is holding its breath with me.
I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. There’s no reason to be this alert. No reason for my heart to be beating fast enough that I can feel it in my wrists. But the moment I closed my eyes, something nudged at me—an instinct or memory or maybe something older than either. A prickle at the back of my neck. A wrongness outside the walls.
I heard it two minutes ago. Crunching gravel. A shifting weight in the treeline, close to the porch, too heavy for a deer.
Now the quiet feels poised, braced for something to break.
I grab my phone and dip under the covers, irrationally hoping that “whoever” is outside didn’t see the flash of light when I tapped the screen. My finger hovers over a few contacts:the local dispatch, Mom’s number, even Jesse’s before I tap the one name I shouldn’t rely on.
Makari.
One ring. Then another. He picks up on the third, voice gravel-deep, not groggy at all.
“Roxanne?”
I swallow. “There’s someone in the woods.”
He goes still. I can feel it in the silence. “Where.” It’s not a question; it’s a command.
“Near the house. I heard—” My throat tightens. “I know it sounds childish, but something woke me up. I can’t explain it, but I feel?—”
“I’m coming,” he says. “Lock the door. Keep Andrea close to you.”
“Mak—”
But the call is already dead.
I shove off the covers, heart pounding, and hurry to Andi’s room. The tiny night-light in the corner casts the walls in a warm glow; she’s curled in her blankets, breathing softly, one hand fisted in the stuffed fox Mom got her from town before heading back to Cambridge a few days ago. I scoop her up gently, and she stirs, eyes fluttering.
“Mama?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, brushing hair from her forehead. “We’re just going to the living room for a minute.”
She nods sleepily, trusting without question. Her cheek presses against my shoulder as I carry her into the main room. I lock the door, the windows, and double-check them even though I already know they’re secure.
The river outside is rushing, steady, and indifferent.
Every light in the house feels like a beacon, and every window feels like an eye.
And then—footsteps.
Heavy ones. Coming up the front path.
I freeze, clutching Andi closer. A low voice, barely audible, comes through the door: “Roxy. Open it.”
Relief hits so hard my knees almost give. I tuck Andi into the couch deeper, ignoring her bewildered expression, and hurry to the door, unlocking it.
