Occupied hands don’t punch walls.
Occupied minds don’t replay old memories until they rot.
“Benji.”
There it is again.
I straighten slow, one hand still wrapped around the fencing pliers, and glance up from the line I’ve been working.
From down here at the lower pasture, the main house sits a good stretch away—far enough that people look like shapes more than faces.
But I see enough.
Sawyer’s truck.
Parked crooked near the end of the lane.
And another vehicle.
That van I noticed earlier.
That alone is enough to set something off in my gut.
We don’t get random visitors out here.
Not without a call first or a reason.
I narrow my eyes, trying to make out more, but the light’s gone soft with the coming night, shadows stretching long across the property.
I can see movement—figures near the porch—but nothing clear enough to put names to faces.
Then Sawyer breaks away from the house and starts heading straight for me.
Fast.
Purpose in every step.
That’s when I know.
Something’s wrong.
I drop the pliers onto the ATV seat without thinking and meet him halfway, wiping my hands on my jeans as he closes the distance.
Up close, it’s worse.
His face is locked down tight. Too controlled. Too still.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just jerks his head back toward the house.
“C’mon.”
That’s it.
No explanation. No warning.
Just that.
