“Thank you,” I say solemnly. “I worked very hard on it.”
He eyes me for a second longer than usual. “Town’s talking.”
I wince. “I gathered.”
“They’ll keep talking,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Doesn’t mean they’re right. And you know, it isn’t everyone. It never is.”
I blink at him.
He clears his throat immediately, like he regrets the moment of humanity, but he slips an extra pack of honey sticks into my bag and pretends he didn’t.
By the time I make it back to The Hollow, I’ve spent the whole day refusing to let myself vanish.
And I’m weirdly proud of that.
The Hollow is buzzing with Founders Day prep. Arlo’s polishing glasses with the same expression he’d probably wear while disposing of a body or discussing the weather. Lani drops off updated drink ideas and the cupcake menu she’s developing for our bake sale. Beau Hartwell skates through at one point and mutters something about writing a poem for the festival that is either going to be brilliant or completely unbearable, possibly both.
I guess everyone wants to know which way this is going to go. Especially me.
Finn is still trying to act like getting stabbed was a minor scheduling inconvenience. “It was a graze.”
“It was a knife,” I reply.
“Details.”
“You are medically banned from being flirty about your own blood loss.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “That feels oppressive.”
“It should.”
Zane passes through with a box of supplies and gives me that look of his, the quiet one that somehow asksAre you steady?without saying a word. Ryder clocks me from across the room, standing near the bar with that same controlled, impossible stillness that always makes him look like he’s already solved three problems and is just waiting for the world to catch up.
I nod at both of them before I can stop myself.
I’m okay.
Or close enough.
And the thing is… I mean it. At least while I’m moving. While I’m useful. While there are lists and people and reasons to keep my hands full.
It’s only later, when the town quiets and the apartment settles into that low nighttime hush, that everything catches up.
Of course it does.
Because apparently my brain prefers to save its emotional sabotage for after business hours.
I sit on the bed with my legs folded under me, the lamp casting that warm, low light Ryder always leaves on. The room feels soft around the edges. Too quiet. Safe enough that there’s room to think, which turns out to be both a blessing and a terrible design flaw.
I stare at my bag for a long moment before reaching for the letter.
Evie’s letter is already worn at the folds now. The paper is softer than it used to be, like even it has started to live in my hands. I unfold it carefully, smoothing it over my knee, and all I can do is look at her handwriting.
It always hits me first, that part.
The proof of her.
The shape of her thoughts, still here.
