Page 86 of Tessa and Nash

“It’s not in the woods,” I say flatly. “It’s on the outskirts.”

“That’s worse,” he replies. “Outskirts is where horror movies start.”

“It’s an old property,” I say. “It’s isolated. It’s been… kept.”

“Kept how?” he asks, too casual for how sharp his eyes are.

I don’t answer immediately, because the honest answer is: kept away from me.

Instead, I say, “My uncle doesn’t like people asking questions about it.”

Nash lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Your uncle doesn’t like people asking questions about anything.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “He loves questions as long as he gets to answer them.”

Nash’s mouth tilts. “That is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m full of joy,” I reply.

His gaze flicks toward me. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lie.

Nash taps the folder against his knee. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The one where you pretend you’re calm and your jaw locks like you’re about to go to war.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Stop watching my jaw.”

He huffs a laugh. “Hard not to, considering it’s doing calisthenics.”

I shoot him a look. “Focus on not dying.”

“I’m not the one driving into the middle of nowhere to confront a family secret,” he points out.

“I’m not confronting anything,” I say. “I’m… observing.”

“Monitoring,” he supplies, smug.

“Don’t,” I warn.

He grins, but it fades fast. “Tessa… if your uncle’s been keeping you away from it, there’s a reason.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

Silence settles again.

The road narrows, snow piled at the edges. Trees lean in, bare branches scratching gray sky. The farther we get from town, the less Buckhorn feels like a cozy storybook.

My throat tightens. My hands go colder on the wheel.

Nash watches me from the passenger seat without saying a word, which somehow makes it worse.

Then the turnoff appears.

A faded wooden sign, half buried in snow: OLD MILL RD EXT.