“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. Whether you stay or go. But I really hope you stay.”
The line goes dead.
I stand up and sigh.
“I guess I’m doing this,” I whisper to literally no one.
Maybe the fates.
I look at the boxes. The suitcase. The evidence of my almost-escape.
Then I start unpacking, methodically putting everything back where it belongs. Deliberate, the exact opposite of how I tossed everything in the boxes in the first place. Each item I put back is a small act of defiance. A promise to myself.
By six in the morning, the sun is rising, and everything is back in place. The apartment looks normal again, as if I’d never considered leaving.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. My Sienna Saguaro social media accounts are still there, untouched by me since the explosion. No new posts. No acknowledgment. Sure, the notifications are probably piling up—readers commenting, sharing, tagging—but I haven’t looked. The last thing I posted was a book quote from three days ago, sitting there as if nothing had happened.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I start typing. It’s not a post, really. Just a draft. Notes for something I might say when I’m ready.
To the readers who found Sunset Ridge and recognized a real place in its pages: you’re right. Sierra Rose Ridge is my home. It’s the town that saved me, andWildfire Summeris my love letter to it. I’m not sorry I wrote it. I’m proud.
I don’t post it. I save it to drafts and close the laptop. It’s enough that the words are there now, waiting for when I’m braver.
But I’m still restless. Wired. My hands need something to do.
By seven, I decide to head downstairs to the shop. I wasn’t planning to open today—it’s Sunday, the shop is normally closed—but I need to do something. Anything. Check inventory, prep the register for tomorrow… something that feels normal.
Sierra Rose is softer on Sundays. The air carries the scent of desert sage on the breeze. This early in the morning, the St. Rosa’s Chapel bell hasn’t even rung out yet. The town square is quiet. It’s too early for anyone to be out. Church isn’t for another hour, and people are probably just waking up. It’s just me and the sun painting the red rocks a brilliant gold in the distance.
My town. My home.
I take the shop’s keys out of my pocket and reach for the door handle. Tacky stick attaches to my skin.
Ew.
I pull my hand back and look down.
Red. Tacky. Already drying at the edges, but still wet enough to stick to my skin.
My brain takes a second to process what I’m seeing. Paint. Why would there be—
I look up, scanning the storefront.
My stomach drops.
SLUTis spray-painted across the glass of the front door in capital letters. Below it:WHORE. In smaller letters that snake across the large front window:WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE PERVERT! GO AWAY!
The keys slip from my hand and clatter to the ground.
Someone did this. Someone came to my shop, my home, and did this. While I was upstairs, unpacking boxes and deciding to stay.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m just standing here staring between my paint-covered hand and those words on my storefront.
“Sadie!”
