Someone she trusts.
It’s a feeling I haven’t earned. It scares me more than any avalanche ever could.
When I tighten the last screw, the cabinet door swings smoothly—no wobble, no resistance. Perfect.
Violet beams so brightly it knocks the breath right out of me. “You fixed it!”
“It’s just a door,” I say, even though something in me warms anyway.
I stand, wiping my hands on a towel, when a soft sound behind me makes my chest tighten.
Ava.
She leans in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, hair a little wild from sleep, wearing soft leggings and a sweatshirt that makes her look far more innocent than she actually is.
Her gaze shifts from the cabinet to me—and something flickers across her expression, confusing even her.
Softness. Surprise. A little awe she tries to hide.
“Who knew you were so handy,” she says quietly.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. “Just a hinge.”
“Still,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “She loves stuff like this.”
Violet nudges her. “Jax had bad dreams last night.”
My eyes widen. The kid throws me under the bus without hesitation. Ava turns sharply toward me, concern rising so fast it’s almost palpable. I clear my throat.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
Ava’s gaze holds mine a little too long, a little too knowingly. She doesn’t push. But she sees more than I want her to.
And that’s the part that shakes me.
Not the nightmare. Not the memories. Not the haunting echo of Emily’s voice fading into dark.
It’s this: Ava Dawson stands in my kitchen, sunlight edging her hair, her daughter smiling at me like I’m something good, and all I can think is—
I care.
Already. Too much.
And I have no idea how to stop.
Chapter Twelve
Ava
If there’s one universal truth about Silver Ridge, it’s that the town clings to its traditions with the same stubborn devotion it gives to snowfall. Storms roll in as regularly as sunrise, casseroles appear on porches like offerings to the winter gods, and the locals jump to conclusions faster than a paramedic to a distress call. It’s a rhythm, a ritual, a small-town heartbeat.
It’s barely past noon when I shrug on my jacket and call toward the bedroom, “Violet, honey? I’m running down to Miller’s Market for a few things.”
“Okay!” she calls back. “Do I have to come?”
“Nope. Stay warm. Do your schoolwork.”
There’s a quiet beat, then: “Is Jax going with you?”
