Page 1 of The Ashes of Summer

Chapter 1

A Reckoning

Jacob

My finger hovers on the trigger; the urge to pull and send whoever the fuck stands in the entrance to hell pulsing through my veins. But I stop myself. Realization dawns on me that this man could be my ticket to finding her, so I hold my aim and let the creature step in from the shadows.

What I see when he enters makes me falter. He’s older, composed in a way that feels strange for what’s happening in this house. He wears a dark jacket. White shirt. Every line of him is controlled.

He must be the butler.

He crosses the threshold with open palms, wearing a mask of calmness. Then I look at the eyes staring back at me. The calm doesn't reach them. Something shifts there. A crack in the polished surface. Fear, held so tightly it's threatening to split him open.

“I can help you,” he breathes, his voice a little more than a rasp.

I cross the room in three strides and press the barrel of the gun to the center of his forehead.

“Three seconds,” I say, voice low and lethal. “Or I pull the fucking trigger. Where is he going?”

Up close, I see it. Not just fear of me. Something deeper. Something that was already there before he realized I was here.

“Please,” he says, swallowing hard. “I’m not your enemy.”

I don’t move the gun.

“Everyone in this house is my fucking enemy, old man,” I snarl, shifting the gun in my grip as I take another step toward him. The movement is instinctive, barely noticeable, but his eyes immediately lift to the weapon before snapping back to my face. Sweat beads along his hairline. His throat bobs. Good. Let him be afraid. Let him understand exactly how little stands between him and a bullet right now.

“I won’t ask again.” My voice comes out low and deadly calm, which somehow feels worse than shouting. “Where. The fuck. Is he going?”

His jaw tightens. He knows the risk he took entering this room. He knows I could have painted the walls with a single shot to the head. But he came to me anyway. He didn’t try to hide. He didn’t try to attack.

“Mr. Moore...” The name catches in his throat. He swallows hard, like even saying it might cost him something. The fear isn't subtle anymore. It's written across every inch of him. The rigid posture. The carefully controlled expression. The polished butler act he's been hiding behind since he stepped into this room. All of it is starting to crack beneath the weight of what's happening.

“He uses the property for business,” he says, forcing the words out. “But when he needs to disappear...” His voice falters. He glances away, then looks back at me. “...he goes to Rivers Ridge.”

I lower the gun a fraction.

Not because I trust him. Because I want him to keep talking.

“Where.”

“Private estate,” he says quickly, the words coming faster now. “Off-grid. Not on any map you'll find. There are no records. Nothing at all.”

My grip tightens. Sweat makes the weapon shift slightly in my hand as I study him. He's terrified. I can see that much. But terror doesn't mean honesty. I've spent enough years sitting across interrogation tables to know that fear makes people do desperate things. Lie. Beg. Say whatever they think will keep them alive for another minute.

“And why would I believe a fucking word you say?” I bare my teeth before clamping my jaw shut hard enough that pressure builds behind my molars. The taste of blood coats my tongue where I've bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it. “They got an ambush waiting?”

The question hangs between us.

Neither of us moves.

Then he breaks. Not physically. Not all at once.

But I see the exact moment it happens. The fight leaves his eyes.

“My daughter, Sarah.” His voice doesn't hold this time. It fractures completely.

The name catches me off guard. Not because I care about him. Because of the way he says it. Like it's the thing that's been trapped inside his chest this entire time.