“We don’t rip open old wounds while everything else is unstable,” he continues. “Fire just missed this place. You’ve barely slept. Your nerves are shot.”
Wyatt nods in agreement. “Your system’s overloaded. That’s when mysteries turn into spirals.”
Marshall shrugs. “Doesn’t mean we ignore it. Just means we pick our timing.”
Wyatt adds, “And when we do look, we do it intentionally. Together. With space to process whatever comes up.”
The thought of not being alone when I face whatever my grandmother left behind loosens a tightness in my chest.
Still, the frustration remains, sharp and restless. I hate not knowing. Hate feeling like my own history is sitting just out of reach, tapping on the glass.
But I hate this feeling more. The buzzing, unfocused panic that makes everything feel too loud, too close.
I push my chair back and stand. “You’re right. I can’t do this right now.”
Both of them look up at me.
“I mean it,” I say, pacing a few steps before stopping by the window. Outside, the rain has softened to a mist again, the world washed clean and raw. “If I keep pulling at this thread today, I’m going to unravel. And I don’t have time for that.”
Marshall studies me, then nods once. “So what do you need?”
The answer comes easily. Instantly. Like my body’s been waiting for permission to say it.
“My bees.”
Wyatt smiles faintly. “Of course.”
“They’ve been through enough,” I say, steadier now. “They don’t care about secrets or letters or who lied to who. They care about warmth and structure and being where they belong.”
Marshall grabs his jacket. “Then that’s the plan.”
I look between them, gratitude swelling so fast it almost hurts. “I need to get them back home. Today. Before anything else tries to pull my attention away.”
Wyatt stands, already reaching for his keys. “We’ll help.”
I nod, folding the letter carefully and slipping it back into the envelope. I set it in the kitchen drawer beneath my grandmother’s old recipe cards, where it can wait without being forgotten.
The mystery isn’t going anywhere. But neither am I.
For now, I choose the thing that’s always brought me back to myself. The steady hum, the quiet work, the certainty of living creatures who trust me to show up.
“Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s bring my babies home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jesse
Thursday
There’s a specific kind of madness that only exists when children are trapped indoors with too much adrenaline, too many snacks, and exactly zero understanding of why the adults keep using words such as “containment” and “evacuation” as if they’re supposed to mean something reassuring.
It’s not the fun kind of insanity. Not the “snow day” fun or the “rainy Saturday” havoc where you make pancakes and build blanket forts and call it a memory.
This is feral.
This is cabin fever with tiny humans.
I hear furniture scooting where furniture should not be scooting. Chair legs shrieking against old wood floors and a table being dragged three inches to the left for absolutely no discernible reason.
