I nodded, already scanning the crowd for Riley. Found her across the lawn, watching us. I crossed to her, that same tight feeling in my chest, urgency clawing at me to move, to go, to get there.
“Hey.” I tried to smile. It probably didn't land. “I have to take off. I'm really sorry.”
“Everything okay?”
I slowed. Not enough to stop, but enough to give myself away. My jaw tightened. I scrubbed a hand over the back of my neck, breath shallow, the words not wanting to come out.
“Grace.” Just her name, low and rough. Then a pause. “Something happened.”
That was all I could manage before urgency pushed past restraint.
Riley didn't ask for details. She just stepped aside, clearing my path, meeting my eyes once and holding them steady.
I nodded once—sharp, grateful—and turned away.
My stride quickened with every step. By the time I reached my truck, I was practically running. The engine roared to life. Gravel sprayed behind me as I tore down the driveway, dust kicking up in my wake.
Whatever was happening with Grace, she needed me.
The drive was fifteen minutes. It felt like fifteen hours.
My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white. The truck's heater pumped warm air, but I couldn't shake the chill that had settled into my bones. My palms were slick with sweat. I wiped them on my dress pants, one at a time, keeping my eyes on the road.
The smell of wildflowers from the wedding clung to my suit. Pollen and something sweet—the scent of other people's happiness. My phone sat on the passenger seat, silent now. I kept glancing at it, half expecting Grace to call back and tell me she was fine, she'd overreacted, and I should go back to the party.
She didn't call.
I thought about her. My oldest friend. The person who'd been a constant since we were in high school, when she was the quiet girl who worked weekends at her grandmother's B&B, and I was the kid whose dad had just died in a warehouse fire. She'd brought me cinnamon rolls the week after the funeral and sat with me in silence because she understood that sometimes words were worse than useless.
Sixteen years of Saturday breakfasts. All those years of friendship—helping her with repairs around the B&B, drinking her too-sweet coffee, watching her pour herself into that place the way Gran had taught her. Sixteen years of friendship, steady and uncomplicated.
I remembered the night she told me about Marcus. We were twenty, maybe twenty-one. She'd met him at some college event, and when she talked about him, her whole face changed. Lit up in a way I'd never seen before. He was smart, she said. Ambitious. He had plans. He saw a future.
I'd been happy for her. Genuinely happy. Grace deserved someone who made her light up like that.
And for a while, Marcus seemed like the right guy. He drove up on weekends, charmed her grandmother, and talked about building a life together. When he proposed two years ago, I shook his hand and meant it when I said congratulations.
But somewhere along the way, the light in Grace's face had dimmed. The visits got shorter. The calls got less frequent. Marcus started talking about the B&B like it was an obstacle instead of her legacy. And Grace started shrinking, bit by bit, making herself smaller to fit into the space he left for her.
And now Marcus had left.
I thought about him. The way he looked at Grace like she was a problem to be optimized. The way he talked about the B&B like it was a burden instead of her heart made physical. The way he'd scrolled through his phone while she served him breakfast,not even bothering to look up. The way he'd called me a friend of Grace's, like I was her baggage and not someone who mattered.
Anger rose hot and sharp in my chest. I welcomed it. Anger was better than the fear creeping in underneath—the fear that this would be bad, that Marcus had hurt her in ways I couldn't fix.
I pressed the accelerator harder.
The road curved through farmland, past fields I couldn't see in the dark. The headlights carved a narrow tunnel through the night, everything beyond it black and shapeless. I wondered if Grace was sitting in the dark too. I wondered how long she'd been alone.
The B&B appeared around the final bend. A white Victorian, wraparound porch—the house that had stood for a hundred years and seen everything. It looked the same as always.
But something felt wrong.
Too quiet. Too still. Only one light on, the kitchen window glowing yellow against the night.
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. I was out of the truck before the dust settled, crossing the yard in long strides.
I let myself in through the kitchen door. The hinges creaked the way they always did, announcing my arrival to an empty room.
