1
AVERY
The freezing rain feels less like water and more like a thousand tiny needles stabbing every inch of exposed skin on my face.
My fingers are numb inside these cheap hardware store gloves, stiff and clumsy as I grip the hammer. I swing at the nail head for the third time and miss, the metal head connecting with a wet thud against the rotting wood of the porch railing instead.
"Come on," I hiss through my chattering teeth, adjusting my grip. "Just go in. Please."
The nail mocks me. It’s bent at a forty-five-degree angle now, half-embedded in the gray, waterlogged timber like a crooked tooth.
This cabin was supposed to be a fresh start. A refuge.
When the lawyer called to tell me my biological uncle—a man I’d never met—had left me a property in Pine Valley, I pictured a cozy A-frame with a smoking chimney and a bearskin rug.
I did not picturethis.
The shack, because that’s really what it is, leans precariously to the left. The roof has more moss than shingles, and the front porch railing—the one I’m currently fighting a losing war against—is hanging on by sheer force of habit.
But it’s mine.
For the first time in twenty-three years of bouncing between foster homes, crowded group centers, and apartments with paper-thin walls, I own something that can’t be taken away. Even if it is currently trying to give me hypothermia.
A gust of wind screams down the mountain pass, nearly knocking me off the step stool. The vintage toolkit I found under the sink sits open on the decking, rapidly filling with water.
I don't even know what half the tools are for. There's a wrench that looks like it could double as a weapon and a saw so rusty I’m afraid looking at it will give me tetanus.
"Okay, Avery," I mutter, wiping rain out of my eyes. "Focus. You survived the system. You survived rush hour in the city. You can survive a piece of wood."
I line up the hammer again. I need to secure this railing before the storm gets worse. If it goes, it takes the structural integrity of the front steps with it, and I really don't want to break a leg trying to get my morning coffee.
I pull my arm back, squeezing my eyes shut for a split second to brace against the wind, and swing.
Crack.
Not the sound of a nail going in. The sound of wood splitting.
The railing groans, lurching outward.
I yelp, dropping the hammer—it lands with a heavy splash in a puddle—and grab the banister with both hands, trying to hold it in place.
It’s heavy, way heavier than it looks, soaked through with decades of rain and snow. My boots slip on the slick decking. I slide a foot, my hip slamming into the wood siding of the cabin.
"No, no, no!" I grunt, digging my heels in. "Stay!"
But it doesn't listen.
The wood creaks, a slow, agonizing sound of surrender. I'm not strong enough. I’m five-foot-four on a good day, and my gym membership was mostly for the sauna. I’m losing the battle, and gravity is a cruel opponent.
Then I hear it.
Not the wind.
Not the rain.
A deep, rhythmic crunching sound. Like heavy boots breaking through the frozen crust of the earth.
I turn my head, hair plastering against my cheek, and I freeze.
