“Ash,” she says quietly.
I wait for her to stand, close the distance between us. She leans against the table next to me, her voice a whisper. “You’ve always been disciplined.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studies my hands where they rest on the table.
“Control isn’t the same as immunity,” she says.
I meet her eyes.
“It just delays consequence.”
I exhale, shifting my weight. “You think I’m compromised.”
She smiles faintly. “I think there’s something you’re already feeling.”
Then she pushes away from the table, leaving me alone in my thoughts.
Lost in a swirl of dust and the fragrance of aged tobacco.
Chapter
Six
JOSEPHINE
The museum sits a few streets off Main as if it’s pretending not to notice the century around it.
Brick faded to a muted rust. Mortar crumbling in fine white veins. Windows clean but faintly warped with old glass, so the street outside bends slightly if you stare too long.
The wooden sign above the door creaks when the wind rolls down from the range. Not a sharp sound. A tired one.
I pause before going in.
The air out here smells like sun-warmed asphalt and dust. I push the door open, and cooler air wraps around me, scented with paper, lemon polish, and something faintly metallic—the residue of old radiators and forgotten winters.
Contained time.
The floorboards shift under my boots as I cross to the front desk. No one looks up. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead, blades whispering against stale air.
I sign the guest ledger out of habit. The last entry is three days old.
“Josephine?” a voice calls from behind a glass case of lithic points arranged like careful constellations.
“Jo,” I correct gently, stepping forward.
Debbie emerges from behind the case. Early forties, soft cardigan, reading glasses pushed into her hair like a bookmark. Her smile is warm, practiced. The kind meant to reassure donors and field-tripping fourth graders.
“We’ve been excited about your work,” she says. “Not many grad students want to spend a summer in Raven’s Ridge.”
“Can’t help it,” I reply with a forced laugh. “I like your rocks.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. Then she motions me to follow.
She leads me through a narrow hallway where framed photographs climb the walls in mismatched order—ranching families, rodeo queens, miners with hollowed eyes and proud stances.
The temperature drops as we pass into the archive room. It’s subtle, but immediate.
