“They couldn’t go to Philippe and tell him what was happening?”Monty asks, and it’s not a question so much as a growl wrapped in grammar.“They had to go to the county?That’s weird.”
Cally shakes his head.“Harvey dug into it.One of those guys wanted to buy the place for cheap after they shut it down.Convert it into a resort or something.”
Monty’s eyes narrow, and I swear the temperature in the car drops a degree.“Are we going to let them get away with that?”
“Since I’m in a vindictive mood,” Callaway says, voice easy like he’s talking about ordering dessert, “the guy’s going to pay for fucking with the camp—and my father-in-law.”
My father-in-law.
That phrase hits me like a punch and a promise all at once.Because it makes it sound like the decision is already made.Which I know it is, but it hasn’t sunk in yet.
When I look around again, I see him.At the center of the driveway stands my father.
Standing with his hands in his jacket pockets.Boots planted like he’s rooted himself to the earth so nothing can knock him over.Expression unreadable in that way that used to make me feel like I was about to be grounded for breathing wrong.
My heart doesn’t just speed up.It stutters.
“Who told him we were coming?”I ask too fast, too high, like my voice is trying to climb out of my body and escape.
Monty doesn’t answer immediately.His gaze locks onto my father like he’s assessing a threat, and it’s not fair how quickly my brain flashes to Monty’s protective instincts: cold, direct, brutal in their simplicity.
Callaway shifts in his seat, already turned halfway toward me like I’m the most important thing in the world and also something he might have to physically shield.“Harvey mentioned we would be coming after training.”
Of course he did.
Of course the universe couldn’t let me have a quiet arrival.
The car crunches to a stop on the gravel.Monty kills the engine.Silence fills the cabin, thick with everything I’m not saying.
And then Monty looks at me in the rearview mirror—straight into my soul, like he’s checking the locks on it.
“You want me to?—”
“Nope.”I’m already unbuckling because if I hesitate, I’ll stay in this car until my child is old enough to drive it away.“I’m going first.I’m not twelve.”
Callaway’s mouth quirks.“You weren’t twelve the last time you were here either.”
“I was emotionally twelve,” I mutter.“Which is worse.My dad was sick and I felt slightly lost.”
I open the door, step into the cold, and my lungs pull in Juniper Ridge.
The air hits clean and absolutely uninterested in my coping mechanisms.My father doesn’t move.But his eyes—his eyes track me like he’s trying to figure out which version of me I’m bringing up the path.
I walk toward him like I’m approaching a ref after a blown call—ready to argue, ready to cry, pretending I’m neither.
Every step feels like it echoes down my spine.
When I’m close enough to see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gray in his beard, the way his mouth presses tight like he’s holding something back, he finally speaks.
“Hi, Vessy.”
That nickname hits me so hard my vision wobbles.It’s ridiculous.It’s one word.It shouldn’t undo me.
...but it does.
My throat closes and I’m crying before I can stop it, like my body has been saving these tears for years and just needed the right key.I don’t just tear up.I break—ugly, loud, humiliating sobs that make me feel like I’m six and I’ve scraped my knee and my dad is the only person in the world who can make it stop hurting.
I cover my face with my hands like I can hide from grief.
