And of course, through the woods, from her room, she’d be able to see the grand Bowie family estate. Most particularly, Jericho’s window.
No light in it tonight.
She didn’t know who owned the place now, and she shook away the memories.
Setting the container of ribs on the counter, she turned to theliving area. And, of course, ghosts rushed in. Her mom’s voice, soft and melodic, reading poetry by the stove, the smell of her lavender perfume lifting from one of her homemade afghans. Her father’s hums as he tried out another of his crazy soup recipes. Gabe, sitting on the wide, worn sofa, reading a comic book. Happy family. Whole.
Maybe that wasnother life. Maybe the life she just created in her head because other voices broke through, sharp and jagged. Gabe’s shouts, his teenage anger filling the dome—“You don’t get it, Dad! You never will!”—the slam of the door to his room.
Her dad’s voice, low and firm, his sheriff’s tone cutting through—“You’re throwing your life away, Gabe, and I won’t let you!”
And Harley, watching, helpless, her own voice lost, her chest aching.
She crossed to a closet near the library nook and punched in the code to the electric lock. The door creaked open, revealing stacks of boxes—her parents’ things, packed away after the crash, the cardboard edges soft with age. A small metal container sat on a shelf.
She lifted it, the surface cold under her fingers.
“Hey, Gabe.”
Her eyes burned.Stupid.She’d meant to spread his ashes after his memorial. Instead, she’d locked them away.
But for a second, his name conjured up his smile, the way he made her feel seen on his good days, when he’d poke fun at her or even show up for her hockey games, rooting his lungs out.
“I miss you.”
A knock at the door jolted her. She turned, her heart slamming against her chest. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me!”
Winter?
Setting the box on the butcher block island, she headed tothe door and peered through the glass panel, her breath fogging the window.
Yes, Winter Starr stood on the deck, her long brown braid peeking out under a knitted cap. She wore a thick fur-trimmed, long suede jacket zipped to her chin, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
Of course her best friend would show up.
Harley opened the door, the cold air rushing in. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Winter simply stepped up to her and pulled her into her arms. “You should have waited for me. I would have driven out here with you.”
“I’m okay.”
Winter let her go. “Wait, are those Midnight Sun ribs I smell?” She stepped inside, shut the door.
“Hungry?” Harley walked to the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light.
“Famished. I did a mail run today, down to Willow. Topher sent me a text. Something about you running down a purse-snatcher?”
“Seriously? It’ll probably make the paper.”
“Front page.” Winter unwound her scarf, shoved it into the sleeve of her jacket and hung it up on the hook. “We just don’t get that much drama.” She smiled. “But HT’s back in town, so clearly that’s gonna change.” She winked. Then her smile fell. “You sure you’re okay?” Her glance landed on the box on the island, then back to Harley, her mouth tight.
“Yes.” She sighed. “I’m fine.”
Harley grabbed the takeout container, the ribs still warm, and opened it, the smoky scent of barbecue sauce filling the air.
“Mm-hmm,” Winter hummed. She walked up to the metal box, put her hand on it. “I miss him too.”
