This place isn’t fancy.
It isn’t permanent—yes, that stings.
But it’s mine, for now.
And that’s enough.
I’m surviving.
And maybe—with a little more time—I’ll do more than that.
Maybe I’ll thrive.
The water turns colder, and I hurry to finish my shower.
Thatcher reminded me about the storm warning earlier.
I nodded when he said it. I heard him.
But storm warnings have been nonstop since I got here, so I didn’t give it much weight.
Famous last thoughts.
I’m just rinsing conditioner out of my hair, humming along to the soundtrack of an old Jim Henson movie I loved as a kid—the TV murmuring faintly from the other room—when I hear it.
A sound like a dull pop.
Then—nothing.
The lights cut out.
CHAPTER 17
THATCHER
Iturn on the monitors to the security feed from the mill in my home office.
It’s supposed to be a second bedroom, but I converted it years ago. I live alone.
Don’t need the space.
What I need is eyes on what’s mine.
This—this—has become my nightly ritual.
How I feed my obsession.
It’s not unusual for me to check the mill from here.
Equipment is expensive. Theft happens. Weather does damage faster than people ever could.
But that’s not why I’m doing this now.
I’m doing it because ofher.
Because I need to know she’s safe.
I don’t know what Willow Esposito is running from. I don’t know the full shape of her past or the things that put that shadow in her eyes.
