His forehead rested lightly against my hair. “Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
As we sat there, quiet and wrapped around each other, Eric’s fingers stilled against my shoulder.
“Harmony?” he murmured.
My breath caught. “Yeah?”
His voice stayed soft and it almost broke me. “At the festival… when you looked toward the ridge… it felt like you were thinking about going somewhere. Or doing something. Something you didn’t want me to see.”
My stomach tightened, the truth flickering like static beneath my skin.
“I wasn’t going to run,” I whispered. “I just… felt like something was pulling at me. I don’t know what it is yet.”
He nodded once against my temple, accepting the honesty, even if it wasn’t a full answer.
“As long as you don’t go alone.”
“I won’t,” I said and, this time, it wasn’t a lie.
His arm tightened around me, protective but gentle.
“Good. Because whatever that pull is? We’ll figure it out together.”
My chest ached. In a good way. A new way.
“Together,” I breathed.
He closed his eyes like the word meant something to him, something big, something grounding. Only then did the last of the tension slip from my body.
The next few days passed in a strange, fragile rhythm of quiet mornings, tense afternoons, and nights where I stayed tucked against Eric, as if the world outside might shatter if I moved. The festival crowds swelled, December crept closer, and Val-Du-Lysbreathed in the first whisper of winter. Thin flurries dusted the orchard, clinging to branches like cautious promises of deeper snow to come.
Becket’s updates from Montreal came in clipped phone calls and late-night muttering from the dining room. Marcel’s appeal was moving faster than expected. Documents sealed for over a decade were suddenly in motion, names resurfacing, case files shifting.
Every time that phone rang, every time a new filing hit the docket…I felt the storm closing in.
CHAPTER 38
Eric
The first snow came quietly. Not the full winter drop Val-Du-Lys usually got in December, but a thin, hesitant dusting that softened everything it touched: the orchard rows, the ridge trail, the porch railings. It made Maple Valley look like a peaceful winter postcard, serene and delicate, though beneath the white the ground was still shifting. I stood on the back steps with a mug of coffee, breath fogging the air as I watched flakes melt into the earth. The cold bit sharper than last week, the kind that warned the season was about to turn. Harmony stepped outside beside me, pulling her sweater tighter. Her cheeks were pink from sleep, her eyes softer than they had been in days. Still tired, still carrying too much weight for one person, but steadier. Or maybe just better at pretending.
“You’re up early,” she murmured.
“So are you.”
A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I didn’t push. Sleep had been unreliable for both of us since the loft. Since SableFox. Since the feeling of being watched lodged itself beneath her skin. Instead, I handed her my mug.She took a slow sip and leaned into my shoulder. For a breath, the silence felt almost normal.
The back door opened again, and Becket stepped out, hoodie up, phone pressed to his ear. His expression was carved from stone.
“Yeah,” he said tightly. “Send it to my private line. Not the station. And don’t put anything in writing unless I tell you.”
Harmony stiffened beside me.
Becket lowered the phone. His gaze flicked to us, then away.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
