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Beneath me, my mother’s bones lie still.

But the truth?

It’s alive.

In the dirt.

In the air.

In these walls.

He’s up there.

He knows I found something.

Good.

I turn.

I climb.

And I don’t look back.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

I slam the cabin door behind me, the cold air hitting my skin like a slap that dares me to flinch. The box feels heavier in my hand with every step toward the shed. Inside, the scent of bleach still lingers, clinging to the air like a guilty secret, like something scrubbed but not forgotten.

My workbench greets me, sturdy and familiar. It’s the only place left where my hands can still ground me.

I pull the journal from the box and flip to the pages marked with Levi’s name, my father’s jagged script bleeding through the paper. My fingers trace the ink as if touching it might pull the memories to the surface faster, more obedient.

Then I hear it.

A sound outside. Faint at first. The hush of gravel underfoot, the whisper of a step carried by wind. But it grows louder. Heavier. The unmistakable crunch of boots on the driveway.

My pulse stutters. My hand hovers over the open journal, my breath caught in the space between dread and recognition.

Someone’s here.

I move to the shed door and crack it open. Standing just beyond the pigpen is a man. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets. The pigs shift restlessly, their snorts unsettled. They feel it too. Something’s off.

“Hello,” I call.

“Miss,” he says, casual but measured. “Sorry to bother you. I’m investigating Mr. Wolfe’s disappearance. Thought we could talk.”

The PI.

He doesn’t belong here. Not with his pressed clothes and his polished edges. Everything about him screams control. Sharp lines. Tight reins. His stance is easy, but his eyes cut the scene apart piece by piece, me, the shed, the pigs.

Before I can answer, another figure rounds the corner of the house.

My stomach knots.

Jonah Bushell. Another one of my father’s loyal disciples. One of the faithful.

He’s just as I remember him. Stocky and plump, yellowed teeth clamped around a cigarette as he lights it with twitchy hands. His presence turns the air sharp. Acidic.