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“Just thought I’d check in. Got a call from Mrs. Wolfe.” He shrugs, like it’s all perfectly normal.

“Seems that private investigator of hers hasn’t been answering her calls.”

The breath stutters in my chest.

“Not sure that has to do with me. He came by a few days ago,” I say. “Asked some questions. I told him I didn’t have anything for him.”

Davis nods slowly. “Found him dead at that cheap motel out by the highway,” he says, voice low. “No forced entry. No signs of a struggle.” He looks at me closely, too closely. Like he’s cataloguing my reaction. “Strange, don’t you think?” he adds, tone light.

“A man pokin’ around in the wrong places… ending up dead?” I meet his gaze without flinching. “He must have pissed off the wrong people,” I say.

He studies me for a long moment, then ambles toward the mantel, brushing the edge of a photograph with two fingers. The casual ownership of the gesture makes my stomach twist.

“You think he pissed off the wrong people? Who do you think that might be?” he asks.

“I have no clue, Detective. I thought that was your job to figure out,” I reply, my voice clipped.

Another pause.

The fire crackles behind him, spitting embers. Davis straightens and pulls some leather gloves, tugging them over his fingers. “Well then,” he says, almost cheerfully. “If you think of anything, you know where to find me.” He steps past me, the door creaking as he pulls it open.

The cold rushes in, biting and bright.

But before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder. “And Miss Anderson?”

I stiffen.

“Be careful out here,” he says, voice dipped low and syrupy. “Lonely places like this… they remember things.” The door clicks shut behind him. Silence collapses into the space he left, thick and stifling.

I stand frozen in the center of the cabin, the fire snapping and popping in the hearth, my heart hammering a brutal rhythm in my chest.

Something’s changed.

The air feels heavier. Meaner.

Whatever game my father started, it isn’t finished.

And now, I’m not just a player.

I’m the target.

CHAPTER

FORTY-EIGHT

The house feels colder than usual, the heater’s faint hum barely enough to push back the chill gnawing at my bones. The antiseptic smell clings to everything, sharper tonight, threading itself into the faint herbal scent of the tea I’m steeping. My movements are automatic, filling the kettle, lighting the stove, arranging the cup, each action a tether against the chaos clawing at my chest.

Behind me, Janice lingers in the doorway, her coat still buttoned, her scarf hanging loose. She watches me too carefully, her concern wrapped in silence.

“Everything all right at the cabin?” she asks, voice low, cautious.

I tighten my grip on the counter, the edges biting into my palms. “Fine,” I bite, the word slicing the quiet.

Janice flinches but doesn’t retreat. Instead, she adjusts her scarf with deliberate slowness. “You seem… tired. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

“It’s fine,” I say, sharper, harder.

Her eyes drop to my hands. I follow her gaze, fingers trembling, betraying me.