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When the rag comes away streaked with crimson and brown, I toss it into the bucket beside me. The water inside is murky, swirling with filth, but I don’t mind. It’s a small price to pay for the order I’ve brought back to this room. To this land. To myself.

This is my church now, I think, rising to my feet. My hands grip the bucket tightly as I carry it outside, the cool night air biting at my skin. And I am its only preacher.

CHAPTER

NINE

Standing at the kitchen window, with my coffee warming my hands, I revel in the peace that surrounds me. The cabin creaks and groans. This morning is colder than it has been. The sharp frost promising that winter isn’t far off. The valley surrounding the cabin is cloaked in a thick mist. The sun losing its battle in trying to break through the clouds. The pigs stir restlessly in their pen, their snorts and shuffles rising faintly through the quiet.

The land here grounds me, its quiet permanence, its ability to swallow secrets whole. Out here, I am safe. Untouchable.

Or so I think.

A sharp knock shatters the silence, its echo jarring against the stillness. My breath catches as I turn. No one ever comes out here uninvited.

Setting my mug on the counter, I walk cautiously to the door. Through the peephole, I see Clyde Lewis standing there, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. His truck sits on the driveway in front of the cabin, the engine ticking as it cools.

I crack the door just enough to see him. “Clyde,” I say, my tone carefully neutral. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Hey,” he says, flashing that sheepish smile he’s always had, the one that feels too practiced. “Thought I’d swing by and see how your pigs are doing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The pigs? You came all the way out here to see how the pigs are doing?”

“Yeah, well”—he shrugs— “figured you might’ve run into trouble. You know, swine can get ornery when something’s off. If you want me to take a quick look, I can.”

The pigs. My throat tightens, but I keep my face calm. “They’re fine,” I say, my voice steady. “Healthy and noisy, just like they should be.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “That so?”

“Yep. But thanks for checking in.” I start to push the door closed, but his hand wraps around the edge, stopping my motion.

Clyde chuckles softly, glancing toward the yard. “Mind if I see them anyway? It won’t take long. Just want to make sure everything looks good. You know, it’s my specialty being the town vet and all.”

I hesitate, gripping the edge of the door, but not able to make it budge. We keep each other’s stare locked. My mind is racing with excuses I can make. Other than a flat-out no, I can’t think of anything. He can’t see the pen, not now, not like this. But refusing him outright will only raise questions.

“Fine,” I relent, stepping out and pulling the door shut behind me. “But don’t expect much. They’re a noisy bunch.”

Clyde follows me to the back of the property, his boots crunching against the gravel. The pigs grunt louder as we approach, pressing their snouts against the fence. My pulse quickens when I glance toward the far corner of the pen, where the remnants of Virgil lie buried beneath the soil the pigs have churned.

“They’re looking good,” Clyde says, crouching beside the fence. His practiced eye moves over the pigs, assessing them with a calm that feels too deliberate. “Nice weight on this sow. Coat’s clean. No signs of mites or lesions.”

“They’re fine,” I repeat, my tone clipped.

He glances at me briefly, one eyebrow raised. “Relax, Lydia. I’m not criticizing. Just saying you’ve got a good handle on things. Better than most farmers around here.”

I say nothing, watching as he leans closer to the fence. The largest sow roots furiously at the ground, kicking up dirt with a strength that makes my stomach twist.

“She’s really going for something,” Clyde comments, tilting his head. “You feed them anything unusual lately? Scraps? Carcasses? Sometimes, it gets them all worked up.”

“No,” I say quickly, my voice sharp. “Just grain. Same as always.”

Clyde’s gaze lingers on the sow, who’s unearthed a dark patch of mud near the far corner. My chest tightens when I see it, a faint smear of blood.

“Pigs are funny that way,” Clyde says casually. “They’ll dig for hours if they think there’s something good under there. Root vegetables, bones… even if it’s just the scent of decay.”

He says it lightly, but his words press down on me like a vice.

Before he can lean closer, I step forward, grabbing the feed bucket near the gate. “Let me distract them,” I say, tossing a handful of grain into the opposite corner of the pen.