She didn’t look relieved. She looked unsure how to accept a stranger telling her she was safe.
Twenty minutes later, the city was fully behind us. High-rises fell behind us like dominoes, replaced by rows of strip malls, then scattered houses, then open fields. The world spread wide and flat, the sky opening above us in a way the city never allowed.
Tessa stared out the window, eyes hidden behind the glasses, jaw tense, lips parted slightly as if trying to remember how to breathe.
“How long’s it been since you’ve been home?” I asked quietly.
She kept looking out the window. “Too long apparently.” Silence hung in the air between us, but I didn’t push for more.
“Did you call anyone? His friends? Anyone who needed to know?”
“I called the authorities,” I said. “Everything else waits for next of kin.”
She swallowed. “Right. That’s me.” She said it like it was a weight dropping onto her chest. Responsibility settling in.
“But don’t forget River’s Edge is a small town, and newstravels fast. So I’m sure most of the town knows by now.” I hated reminding her how nosy the place was, but hoped it would make it a little easier for her.
Her phone buzzed again. She jumped at the sound, actually jumped in her seat.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she lied.
The number flashed again, a number she absolutely recognized. The same damn one from last time it rang. I could tell from her reaction that it was persistent and unwelcome. She slapped her hand over her mouth, and my stomach dropped.
“You want me to answer it?” I asked hastily.
She shook her head, jaw tightening.
“Alright,” I said softly. “Suit yourself.”
She turned the phone face down. But tension stayed carved into her posture.
The prairie unfurled around us in long, sweeping stretches. Wheat fields shimmering pale gold under the rising sun. Cattle scattered across distant pastures like dark brush strokes. A hawk gliding overhead, shadow rippling across the earth.
“There’s something you should know about the ranch.”
Her head snapped toward me. “What is it?” she asked, voice suddenly taut. Scared. She had every right to be scared. I inhaled. I opened my mouth, and then I looked at her.
Her glasses hid her eyes, but everything else was exposed: her stiff posture, white-knuckled grip on her sleeve, the tremor in her breathing. Her skin pale beneath the flush of earlier crying. Her shoulders rose too fast with each breath. She was already drowning under the weight of the news of Ray.
Not today.
“Not now,” I said.
She blinked hard. “Why not?”
“It’s not important until we get there.” Her chin trembled. She didn’t seem to know how to take those words. Gratitude flickered across her face, then confusion, then something else.
The road cut a straight line through the land stretched out endlessly ahead, a dark ribbon in a sea of gold and green.
She tugged at the sleeve of her sweater, voice barely audible. “I’m not ready.”
“You don’t need to be.”
She didn’t reply. But her shoulders eased just slightly, the first sign of release since she walked out of her building.
Fifteen minutes later, her body gave up. Her head tilted, drooped. She jerked awake once, fighting it. Then she slumped softly toward the window, fatigue finally overpowering the adrenaline and grief. Her breathing deepened. She relaxed, losing the tension etched into her bones.
