The way her shoulders tense like she’s bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet.
Whatever’s haunting her?
I want it gone.
And the realization that I’m already thinking like that—already imagining myself as the solution—tells me I’m in deeper than I should be.
But there’s no backing out now.
Not when she’s here.
Not when she’s under my roof.
Not when every instinct I have is locked on her and refusing to let go.
Whatever she’s running from?
It won’t touch her here.
Not without going through me first.
CHAPTER 12
WILLOW
Mom messaged me last night.
I didn’t see it until this morning, and the moment I did, my stomach dropped hard and fast.
I called her once after I settled in, careful not to tell her where I was.
She asked, of course.
She always does.
I hedged, danced around it, changed the subject.
She doesn’t understand my situation—and after years of trying to explain myself into knots, I finally gave up.
She doesn’t even have this number.
I’m using a free call-forwarding service, one of those temporary setups you can abandon without a trace.
I gave her that number just in case.
Emergencies only.
There’s a feature that hides my real number when I call her back, which makes me feel marginally safer.
But for whatever reason—the mountain, the weather, bad luck—I’m barely getting any bars.
And my mind goes straight to worst-case scenarios.
I told her not to call me.
Not unless she really had to.
Like if Grandpa got sick.
