In the far corner, the piano waits with its slightly yellowed keys.Clair de Luneis open on the stand. I wonder if Mom’s started playing again.
Noah wanted to play hide-and-seek, but I just found him asleep on the couch under Mom’s throw blanket.
“You should stay the night,” she says, already heading for extra pillows.
I want to protest, because staying here always feels like I’m slipping into a too-small version of myself, but I’m too tired.
“Okay,” I say, and her happy smile catches me off guard.
Upstairs in my room, I settle on the floor beside the bed, the way I used to whenever Xaden was here.
My old posters still line the walls: Hozier, Troye Sivan, Blondie.
I feel the old itch to strum something.
I long for my guitar, for Xaden here next to me. I want to sing him some of his favorites, likeThis NightorApocalypse.I wonder if he still likes them.
Suddenly my thoughts make a sharp turn, back to the whispered conversation I overheard earlier when Mom and Dad thought I was out of earshot.
“You have to come clean,” Mom had said, voice low and sharp. Dad’s reply was too quiet to catch.
And then there’s what I saw in South Ridge.
Willard talking with JJ and Ronnie. Not arresting them. Laughing.
I wake too early to coffee drifting upstairs.
Dad’s at the table with his crossword and favorite pen. “Morning,” I mumble.
“Morning,” he replies, eyes still scanning the puzzle. “There’s coffee.”
We sip in silence until I ask, “What’s the deal with Willard?”
Dad doesn’t flinch. “What do you mean?”
“He was here the other night, for that awkward dinner. It feels like he’s everywhere lately.”
“Well, he’s the town sheriff,” Dad says evenly. “No concern of yours.” Dismissive. Like always. Upstairs, Noah’s voice calls out, breaking the moment.
Dad’s smiling.But he’s hiding something.No doubt about it.
The house feels warm and safe, like it always has, with coffee, creaky floors, Noah’s laugh drifting down the stairs.
But safety’s only as strong as the people holding it.
And if Dad’s tied up with Willard somehow, then none of this is safe at all.
Not for me. Not for Noah. Especially not for Xaden.
XADEN
By my third mile, the Bloom sisters’ words are sitting heavy in my chest.
They’ve let Willard crawl so deep into their lives that free donuts and forced silence have become routine.
“It’s not about the money,” Dorothy said, cheeks pink. “It’s about power.”
Delilah just nodded, resigned, and gave me a list of names: Ann-Sabrina, Steve, Earl, Mickey… almost every business owner in town.
