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I don’t breathe properly again until I’m inside with the deadbolt thrown. Mom is unconscious on the couch. Of course, she is. It’s Friday.

I stand in the entryway, clutching my coat closed, and I take inventory. The skirt. The locket. The heels. A month and a half. That’s how long I let myself forget why I built the mask. Bows and stockings and Gage looking at me like I’m allowed to possess beauty instead of men invoicing it.

My eyes burn. The mask didn’t just hide me. It protected me. Faint purple fingerprints are already blooming around my upper arm.

It makes me remember being eleven, staring at a bruise the size of Texas along my ribs after getting thrown from a horse. I’d been furious at the horse, mostly, because eleven-year-old me had decided a thousand-pound animal had personally conspired against me.

Dad let me rant until I ran out of oxygen. Then, he showed me the video he’d filmed from the fence. I watched myself panic and jerk the reins wrong, confusing the mare until she reared. Dad crouched in front of me.

She got scared too, Jubilee.

I was offended. I was the one who fell.

You’re allowed to be angry about that. But being angry doesn’t make it her fault.

Then he walked me back into the pen. He made me hold out my palm until the mare finally lowered her enormous head and breathed against my palm. She needed to know I wasn’t afraid of her, he said. And that I understood what I’d done wrong. She nudged my palm. I cried. And that was all it took.

Dad never actually taught me how to ride.

He taught me how to get back on the horse.

Something hotter moves beneath the shame. “No.”

I’m not dyeing my hair black again. I’m not throwing away the skirt. I’m not stuffing every pretty thing I love back into a closet because of one disgusting man.

I stare at Mom. Then the laptop on the kitchen table. Trent Tyson picked the wrong fucking girl.

I change clothes, make coffee, and get to work.

By two in the morning, I know more about Trent Tyson than anyone should. Former tenants. Old complaints. Court records. Women who moved abruptly. One eviction makes a lot more sense after I find comments about him letting himself into a tenant’s apartment. A pattern forms, and I save everything twice.

By sunrise, I’ve messaged three former tenants. Two answer. One agrees to talk. The other sends a voice message that locks my limbs at the kitchen table while Mom sleeps ten feet away. It was never just her.

Rage is cleaner than fear. Get back on the horse.

I order a button camera for same-day delivery. Next time he comes around, I’ll be ready.

For now, I have to get to work.

CHAPTER 10

Gage

The internet calls it morning worship. I call it splitting firewood. The distinction matters only to me.

The camera sits on a tripod, angled toward the chopping block with the back field spreading behind me. Early sunlight catches the first hints of autumn creeping into the tree line, copper and gold edging the fading green. Dew clings to the grass along the fence, and the chickens scratch through a patch of fallen leaves beyond the run, investigating the ground like they haven’t been fed twice already.

The flannel came off ten minutes ago when I started sweating, leaving black joggers and work boots. This always creates a problem for a certain portion of the live audience.

“Good morning, heathens,” I tell the camera, propping the axe across the backs of my shoulders. “Today we’re preparing for winter, which means firewood, chicken maintenance, and excessive carbohydrates. Please contain yourselves.”

Hearts flood the screen. I swing. The log splits cleanly down the center.

Muffin lets out an indignant howl from the screened porch. He has been denied outdoor access and considers this a violation of several constitutional cat laws.

“I hear you,” I call without turning. “Your appeal has been denied. The chickens get the yard today, you overgrown floof. Last time, you traumatized them.”

Another swing. I already know the comments. Several hundred reasonable people asking about the chickens, the pastries I’m planning later, and whether I’ve finally repaired the west fence. Then there’s the other subsection of my audience.