The truck turns again, away from the bustling town center and its watchful eyes. The streets narrow slightly but maintain their pristine charm, lined with houses that look like they’ve never known a single weed or unpaid utility bill.
Then, up ahead, the air shifts. It’s subtle, like the parting of an invisible veil, a change in pressure that I feel more than see. The road curves and reveals something that makes my heart stop entirely.
Thorne Manor.
I know it without questioning, the same way I knew the red river was important. This massive Victorian mansion sits back from the street behind what was once probably a manicured yard but now resembles a beautiful disaster. The house itself is grand even in its obvious neglect, with tall windows that catch the light like watchful eyes and a wraparound porch that speaks of lazy summer evenings and sweet tea.
The bones are still magnificent. The architecture is solid, proud, built to last centuries. Everything else tells a story of abandonment.
The paint has dulled to a tired gray-blue that might have once been vibrant. Several shutters hang at defeated angles, like they’ve given up trying to stay properly aligned. Ivy climbs the side of the house like it’s trying to reclaim the building for nature, spreading across the walls in thick, determined vines.
Wild grass shoots through cracks in the front walkway, stubborn and surprisingly beautiful. The porch steps are weathered gray, worn smooth by decades of use followed by years of neglect. The whole house looks like it’s been holding on for dear life, waiting for someone to come home.
My breath catches, sharp and sudden. No one speaks for a long moment. The silence says enough.
Maceo slows the truck, pulling up along the curb like he’s done this before, like this isn’t some momentous dramatic arrival that’s about to change everything.
My eyes stay locked on the house, taking in every detail.
“How long,” I manage, voice quieter than I intended, “has it been like this? Where’s the upkeep? Did nobody think to. . .fix it? This place is a cornerstone. . .important, right?” Two years shouldn’t cause this much damage. Not unless something more than time is responsible.
Maceo looks toward the house, then back to the road. His jaw shifts beneath his skin in a way that suggests he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Not our call,” he says finally.
Ezra’s voice comes from beside me, calm and precise. “Lenora didn’t want anyone touching it.”
My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “My aunt.”
Ezra gives a small, careful nod.
“She’s the mayor,” I say, half remembering fragments of conversations, half piecing together implications. My mother never said much about her older sister. The silence used to confuse me as a child, the way Aunt Lenora was mentioned in passing but never discussed.
As an adult, I recognize it for what it was, a deliberate choice.
Lucien hums softly, a sound that could be agreement or something more complicated. “Lenora runs Ruby Springs the way she likes,” he says with diplomatic understatement.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s accurate,” Ezra replies without hesitation.
Maceo parks the truck with practiced ease. The engine idles, a low rumble beneath the heavy silence that follows.
My stomach twists into knots. My grandmother’s name has been on legal documents and birthday cards and occasional awkward phone calls my entire life, but she always felt more like an idea than a person. Her house has existed in my imagination for so long that I forgot it could be real, solid, mine.
The door handle is only a few feet away. All I have to do is get out of the truck and walk toward my inheritance.
My body refuses to move. My mind scrambles, suddenly hyperaware that I am soaking wet, emotionally exhausted, and standing at the edge of a life I never planned for and have no idea how to navigate.
Lucien’s hand shifts again at my waist, not pushing or pulling, not trying to influence my decision. Just keeping me in the present moment.
“You’re quiet,” he observes.
“I’m thinking,” I answer, then realize that sounds too serious, too vulnerable. “It’s what I do when I’m trying not to panic in public.”
Maceo’s grin softens around the edges, becoming something warmer and more genuine. “You’ll be alright.”
Ezra studies me. “We didn’t think you were coming.”
