“Where are you going?” Rev asks.
“Home.”
“You just got here.”
“Yeah.”
Outside the club the night air feels colder than it did earlier, the kind of chill that settles across the pavement and sinks through the leather of my cut while the low rumble of my bike comes to life beneath me. I swing a leg over the seat and settle my hands on the grips, letting the engine idle while my mind drifts somewhere far from Perdition’s neon lights and the laughter spilling out of the doorway behind me. Somewhere between walking into that warehouse and standing here now, something inside me clicked into place with a clarity that leaves no room for doubt.
Rae Wilder thinks she pushed me away. She thinks that week on her farm was just time passing, something temporary that was bound to end the moment real life stepped back in. But she’s wrong. Dead wrong. Because whatever started growing between us didn’t disappear when I walked out her door. If anything, the distance only made it clearer. One way or another, I’m going to prove it to her. Even if it takes every stubborn ounce of patience I’ve got. Even if it takes forever.
TWENTY
RAE
At first Itell myself it’s a coincidence. A weird coincidence, sure, but still something that can be explained if I don’t think too hard about it. Farms are constantly breaking and fixing themselves in small ways. A board falls, another one gets replaced. A hinge sticks, someone oils it. Maybe I did it myself and just don’t remember. Maybe one night after a bar shift I stumbled home half-asleep, grabbed a hammer, and handled something before my brain had time to fully wake up.
That explanation works… for about two days.
After that it starts getting harder to sell, even to myself.
The first real crack in my perfectly reasonable “I must have fixed it and forgotten” theory happens three mornings later when I walk out to the east pasture with a feed bucket tucked against my hip. The gate out there has been sagging for months because the hinge bent sometime during the winter. Every morning I’ve been lifting the thing slightly before pushing it open so it doesn’t drag through the dirt and make that awful grinding sound that sets my teeth on edge.
So when I reach it and push the gate open automatically, expecting the usual resistance, I nearly stumble forward when it swings wide without the slightest bit of effort.
Smooth.
Silent.
I stop in the middle of the pasture entrance and stare at it like the gate just personally insulted me.
“…what the hell.”
I grab the metal latch and close it again, then open it a second time just to make sure I’m not imagining things.
No drag.
No lift.
No squealing hinge.
Just a perfectly balanced gate moving exactly the way it was designed to.
I crouch down slowly and examine the hinge more closely, squinting at the metal bracket attached to the post. The hardware is brand new. Clean bolts. Fresh metal that hasn’t had time to rust or fade in the sun yet.
Someone didn’t just tighten it.
They replaced the whole thing.
I straighten slowly and glance around the pasture like I might catch someone hiding behind a hay bale holding a wrench.
Nothing.
Just the goats staring at me from across the field like they’re deeply invested in the outcome of whatever investigation I’m conducting.
“Did one of you learn how to use tools?” I ask Kevin.
Kevin responds by trotting over and immediately trying to chew on the sleeve of my hoodie.
