Page 64 of Her Unending Horizon

The highway hummed under my tires, the kind of steady white noise that made it too easy to think.

Maurice’s directions sat folded on the passenger seat, even though I’d already memorized them. Out past Knoxville, hang a right at the second blinking light, gravel road by the busted Co-Op sign, follow it till the pavement dies. Real welcoming stuff.

I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel and tried not to poke at the sore spot wrapping my ribs. Dumb idea to come out here. Dumber idea not to.

The dashboard clock glowed past nine. Exactly one week since the barbecue at Trenda and Simon’s. Exactly one week since Drake Avery cornered me like a damn therapist in a ball cap.

I snorted under my breath.

Drake and I went way back. I’d known him when we were all kids and he’d been the older boy Zoe and Chloe both thought was some kind of superhero. Then he’d left, gone dark, gone SEAL.

Eight years ago he’d come back to Jasper Creek, older, quieter and deadlier, with scores to settle. It was a powder keg, that eventually got Chloe caught up in the cross-hairs. A couple of years ago he’d gone and added a psychology degree on top of “I can kill you six ways with a spoon.”

Overachiever.

At the barbecue he hadn’t come at me guns blazing. That wasn’t his way anymore. No, he’d waited until the burgers were flipped, the kids were shrieking in the tree, and Chloe was laughing with her sisters over by the picnic table in that damn orange dress that wouldn’t leave my brain.

I’d been standing near the cooler, pretending to debate between water and soda like either one mattered, when Drake sidled up beside me.

“How’s work?” he’d asked, casual as you please, grabbing a bottle without looking.

“Light duty,” I’d said. “Cap’s got me riding the box with Fletcher for at least another week. Paperwork, EMT stuff, no interior until the ribs stop bitching.”

Drake had nodded, taking a swig. “You like riding with Fletcher?”

“He’s solid,” I’d admitted. “Good instincts. Keeps his head when things get messy.” I’d shrugged. “Talks too much about fantasy football, but nobody’s perfect.”

Drake’s mouth had twitched. “He says you’re good with kids,” he’d said.

I’d frowned. “What?”

“Fletcher,” he’d said. “He was telling Zoe the other day that you’re ‘weirdly calm’ with pediatric calls. Said you’re the guy he wants if there’s a scared parent on scene.”

I’d grunted, uncomfortable. Compliments never sat right. “Somebody’s got to keep it together. Parents see panic, they panic harder. That doesn’t help anybody.”

“Right,” Drake had said thoughtfully. He’d taken another sip, eyes on the chaos in the yard. “How’s Chloe doing?”

There it was.

I’d stiffened, shoulders tightening under my T-shirt. “You’d have to ask her.”

“I did,” he’d said mildly. “I’m asking you too.”

I’d wanted to brush him off. Tell him I didn’t know, that she was fine, that it wasn’t his business. But Drake had this way of looking at you like he could see the story unspooling under your skin, and lying felt pointless.

“She’s… showing up,” I’d said finally. “She’s in therapy. She’s working. She’s taking care of herself.”

He’d hummed like he was taking notes in his head. “She looked good today,” he’d said. “Strong.”

“Yeah,” I’d said, something tight and painful catching in my chest. “She did.”

He’d let that sit for a beat. Then: “How do you feel when you see her with the kids?”

I’d blinked. “What?”

He’d gestured with his bottle toward where Chloe was bent over to help Zephyr wash sticky hands at the hose, Holden tugging on her arm, Bella shouting something from halfway up the tree.

“When she’s with them,” Drake had said. “What hits you first? Guilt? Grief? Relief? Hope?”