I drop the photo like it burns.
“When was this taken?” My voice is thin, unable to hide the fear.
“We don’t know,” Papa admits. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “Could’ve been weeks ago. Could’ve been last night. It landed on our doorstep an hour ago. The others started coming weeks ago.”
The air in the kitchen grows heavy, pressing against my chest.
“And what are the cops doing about it?” My voice comes out thready, vulnerable.
Papa’s hands tremble as he tucks the photos back into the envelope. His wedding ring catches the light, a dull gleam against skin gone pale.
“The sheriff is helping us, Summer. But there’s only so much he can do. These men, they’re not easy to find.” He lets out a slow and steady breath. “Jacob carries a Colt Python on his hip and sleeps with a shotgun by his bed,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper. “The Kellerman boys crossed him once. They don’t even drive through our county anymore. No one dares set foot out of line around him… Baby… I know you don’t want to, but… he’s all we’ve got.”
I look at him—the man who used to stand between me and the tide when the waves came in too fast—and realize what he’s saying. He’s about to hand me to someone I’ve been trying to get away from for years.
“He’s offered to take you into his home and protect you,” he huffs, “and right now, we don’t have any other choice. We’ve tried to keep you safe here. We’ve done everything we can.”
A rush of electricity crawls from my toes all the way up to my head. I feel the surge of dread, the cold sweat building on my skin—my fight-or-flight response kicking into overdrive.
“I’m twenty years old,” I say, steady. “An adult. You can’t sign me over to the sheriff like I’m evidence in one of your cases.”
He lowers his voice. “Adulthood doesn’t make you bulletproof, Summer. I won’t gamble your life to make a point. You’re leaving with him tonight.”
Through the blur of tears, I can still read the shape of Mama; it’s small and certain, the way a silhouette looks when the light has already chosen its side. I want her to offer a choice, to fold me into her arms and say no, but she only shakes her head—not pity, not apology—and I feel something inside me crack.
“Mama,” I croak, waiting for some sort of answer to come from her.
She rises from her chair and wipes away her tears with her palms.
“Come, honey. Let’s get this sorted.” Mama guides me gently, hand clutching my elbow, up the stairs and into my room without a word.
The door clicks shut behind us. She reaches up, fingers brushingagainst chipped paint, and hauls the battered blue suitcase from the top shelf of my wardrobe.
“Mama, you don’t have to do this,” I whisper, voice trembling.
She flips open my dresser drawers and lifts a rumpled T-shirt, folding it into a precise rectangle.
“Please… just stop and listen,” I beg, stepping closer.
She tucks the shirt into the suitcase’s cavernous belly and slides a soft cotton sweater on top, avoiding my eyes. “I am listening,” she mutters, fingertips grazing each crease.
“Then you know Jacob is—” My throat closes, and I press a hand to my chest. “He’s… weird. He’s been lingering around, finding excuses to pop in. He stares.” The words tumble out faster. “He hovers behind me in the kitchen, leans over my shoulder at the table. I don’t like it.”
Her hands pause mid-fold, then settle the sweater and move on. “He’s our sheriff, Summer. He’s able to protect you. That’s all this is.”
“It’s not about him protecting me, Mama. He shows up at church. He corners me by the well in the yard.” I drop the sock back into the drawer. “You’ve seen him. Papa’s seen him.”
She exhales, smoothing a pair of pajamas into a neat stack. “He cares about our family, which includes you. You’re thinking too much into this.”
“This isn’t caring,” I snap. My voice echoes off the walls. “It’s stalking. Standing too close, leaning in to whisper…”
“Enough,” she says, soft but final.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, watching her dismantle me, one fold at a time. Each item she tucks away is another barrier between who I am now and who I’ll be when I leave.
She crosses to my desk and plucks my Blackwood acceptance letter from the corkboard. The paper trembles in her hand. She smooths it flat, slides it on top of the clothes, and zips the suitcase shut with a single pull.
“You’ll still go,” she reminds me, “when it’s safe.”
