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I remember the kitchen best.

Cracked linoleum, old wooden cabinets scuffed at the edges, scarred table. Good light. I remember Ben burning eggs at two in the morning and calling it breakfast. Torin sketching on napkins. Ashby making lists on the back of envelopes. Me standing by the sink, because I didn’t enjoy sitting with my back to the door.

Ben laughing at me.

You know, Briggs, one day you’re gonna have to trust a chair.

Told him chairs were shifty.

He laughed so hard he dropped the spatula.

Then he died, and the house became a place we didn’t go anymore.

Some doors close from the inside.

“You still there?” Ashby asks.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to go alone.”

I let out a sound vaguely resembling a laugh. “I’m not asking for backup.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I can handle the house,” I insist.

“I know.”

“Then stop using your careful voice.”

“My careful voice often keeps you from punching drywall.”

“Holes in drywall can be fixed.” In people, not so much.

He sighs again. “That’s not the point, Briggs.”

I look down at the old scar over my knuckles. “I disagree.”

Ashby exhales softly. “Tell me after you’ve spoken with Laurel.”

I hang up before he says something kind or supportive, push away from the desk and stand, stretching to loosen the tension in my shoulders. My knees crack like pistol shots.

Thirty-seven years old and built strong as a wall, but walls still settle.

I take one more look at the faces on the board, grab my phone and keys, my jacket from the back of the chair, turn off the lamp, and leave.

Pike Hill lives at the edge of town in a place that used to be a feed store, then a storage warehouse, then a bad idea with plumbing. Now it’s his. Which means there are server racks stacked in what used to be the grain room, chickens wandering outside as if they pay rent, and a half-rebuilt tractor sitting beside a matte black bike.

Pike isn't a normal man.

I respect that.

He opens the door before I knock.

Tall, lean, beard trimmed close, long hair tied back. Eyes that might as well have committed crimes, or solved crimes, and gotten bored halfway through both.

He steps back. “Come on in.”