Page 122 of Tessa and Nash

He stands when I park, stretches, and trots down the steps with that grouchy little huff he does when he’s decided you’ve caused a problem and now it’s his problem too.

“Yeah,” I mutter as I shut the truck door. “Same.”

Tessa isn’t sitting beside me anymore, and Juniper House isn’t behind my ribs.

I only have the ranch.

And I have new information, the photographs Tessa and I took of the journal pages and the map.

Rusty follows me up the porch steps as a shadow. The screen door squeaks when I push it open, that same tired hinge sound I’ve heard since I was a kid. Inside, the house smells of coffee and lemon cleaner and something savory simmering. Mom’s version of comfort, which usually translates to I’m feeding you before I yell at you.

Mom’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Take your boots off before you track half the county in here.”

Rusty pads after me, nails clicking, and flops down by the doorway where he can watch me.

Mom is at the table with her glasses on, hair pinned back, sleeves rolled up. There’s a stack of paperwork beside her because the ranch is constantly trying to drown her in forms, and she keeps beating it back with a pen.

She looks up when I enter.

“You good?”

I sit.

“I went to Juniper House,” I say, because I don’t know how to ease into this, and I don’t think easing is something my family does well anyway.

“Why,” she says slowly, “were you at Long property in the middle of a snowstorm with Thomas Long’s niece?”

I clear my throat. “Mayor Caldwell mentioned the property. The creek line. The east parcel. You showed me Dad’s note⁠—”

“I remember what I showed you,” she snaps, then exhales. “Go on.”

I unlock my phone and slide it across the table instead.

The screen lights up with old ink and uneven handwriting. Brittle pages captured in bad winter light. The map zoomed in close enough to see smudges and eraser marks.

I swipe.

Mom leans in without being asked.

Her eyes track the screen.

Then they stop.

She goes very still.

And that’s when I realize I didn’t actually know what I was afraid of until this moment.

It isn’t the council, Thomas Long, or Hank Lawson running his mouth.

I’m afraid of my mother confirming the thing I can’t unsee.

Afraid of her saying, Yes. We knew. We just didn’t want you to.

“Mom,” I say quietly.

She scrolls back with her finger.

Zooms in.