The afternoon passes slowly. Quietly. I eat a sandwich. Fix a loose board on the back steps. Heat canned soup for dinner while Duke sits at the kitchen door and pretends he's not hoping for the chunk of beef I always toss his way.
"You're welcome."
Nothing. Not even a tail wag.
I go to bed at nine. Read until ten. Sleep until something between three and four, when I wake up, like always with my heart racing. Hands gripping the sheets. The sound of concrete breaking playing in my head like a film reel stuck on the same terrible frame.
I get up. Make coffee. Sit on the porch in the dark. Wait for the sun to come up like it owes me something.
Day seven starts the same as the other six. Coffee. Wood. Silence. Duke positioned on the porch like a furry gargoyle,guarding against threats he has no intention of actually engaging with.
Around noon, I hear tires on the gravel. Distant at first, then closer. Getting stuck in the rut about a quarter mile down the drive where the road washes out. The engine revs. Catches. Keeps coming.
Nobody comes up here. There's no reason to come up here. The road dead ends at my property line.
Duke lifts his head. His ears go forward. A low growl starts in his chest.
"Easy."
A dusty blue Subaru crawls into the clearing. Parks crooked next to my truck. The engine coughs twice before shutting off, and there's a pause. The kind of pause that means whoever's inside is looking at my cabin and reconsidering their life choices.
Good.
The driver's door opens.
Hiking boots hit the dirt first. Then bare brown legs. Then a sundress in a shade of orange so aggressive it should come with a warning label. Then the rest of her. Curves. Braids piled on top of her head. Sunglasses pushed up like a headband. A smile that has no business being that wide on a stranger's face at the end of a road that goes nowhere.
She stands there, hands on her hips, surveying my cabin. My porch. My dog. My entire life reduced to lumber and solitude.
Then she walks straight up to the bottom step, looks me dead in the face, and says, "Hi. My GPS lied to me, my gas light's been on for twelve miles, and I'm pretty sure your porch needs sanding."
Duke rolls onto his back.
Traitor.
CHAPTER TWO
JADA
The man on the porch looks like he wants to murder me.
Not in a serial killer way. More in a "you have interrupted my carefully constructed isolation and I am personally offended by your existence" way. Arms crossed. Jaw tight under a beard that's gone past intentional into "I stopped caring" territory. Gray eyes locked on me with the warmth of a January sidewalk.
Six foot one, easy. Broad shoulders straining a flannel shirt that's seen better decades. Forearms thick with muscle, dusted with dark hair. Hands wrapped around a coffee mug like he's strangling it.
Lord.
My mama would take one look at this man, fan herself with a church bulletin, then tell me to get back in the car.
My mama isn't here. My mama is in Atlanta, probably on the phone with my best friend Tasha right now, comparing notes on how long it's been since I checked in. Three days. A personal record for Jada Williams, the woman who once called her mother from a work trip bathroom to remind her to take her blood pressure medication.
"Hi," I say again, because he hasn't responded. Just stares at me from his porch throne with his murder eyes while his dog, who rolled belly up the second I walked over, squirms happily at my feet. "Your dog seems friendlier than you."
"He's not friendly. He hates strangers."
The dog's tail is going so fast his entire back half is vibrating. One giant paw bats at my hand. Big brown eyes beg me to rub his belly.
Kneeling down, I give the dog what he wants. Coarse fur, warm belly, a happy grunt when I find the sweet spot behind his ear. "What's his name?"
