Six Months Earlier

The road to Cold Creek was a winding, decaying vein cutting through the heart of an ancient forest. On each side of the road, cedars stood like sentinels, their gnarled branches clawing at the bleak sky.

The asphalt beneath our tires was cracked and pitted, the white lines faded into ghosts of themselves, as if the earth were reclaiming what man had tried to impose upon it. It hadn't rained yet, but the air was thick with the promise of it, damp and heavy.The scent of pine and wet earth filled the car, mingling with stale coffee from the cup holder and the faint trace of my mother's perfume clinging to the scarf tucked deep in my bag.

I pressed my forehead to the cold window, watching the endless procession of trees blur past. The landscape slid by in dull greys, as if the shadows of the forest were draining the world of color.The deeper we drove, the worse the road became, riddled with bumps and holes as it narrowed, the overlapping branches closing in until it felt less like a road and more like a tunnel.

One year.

That was all I had to endure. One more year until I turned eighteen. One more year until I could leave this place and never look back. One year of pretending, of holding my breath, of surviving.

In the driver's seat, Dad was silent, his knuckles white around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitch beneath the stubble. He hadn't spoken much since we left the city. Not since the funeral. Not since he'd disappeared for a week afterward, leaving me and Hailey with Grandpa Gerard, only to return with the announcement that we were moving, not somewhere new or promising, but to a God-forsaken place called Cold Creek.

His hometown.

A place I'd never heard of until three weeks ago. A place that, by the look of it, time had forgotten.

"Are we there yet?" Hailey's small, sleepy voice drifted from the back seat.

"Almost," Dad said. His voice was deep and rough, like gravel underfoot. It was the same voice that had once read me bedtime stories, the same voice that had laughed at my jokes. Now it was hollow, stripped of warmth.

I shut my eyes, squeezing the bag in my lap, the one that held Mom's scarf, and forced myself to breathe.

I twisted in my seat to look at my baby sister.

Hailey was curled into her booster seat, her mahogany hair tangled from sleep, her cheeks still round with baby fat. At five years old, she was too young to understand why we'd left, why Mom wasn't coming back. She'd cried for days after the funeral, asking when Mommy would wake up, and no amount of gentle explanation had made death real to her. Now she simply trusted that Dad knew where we were going.

"Hey, sleepyhead," I said, forcing a smile. "Hungry?"

She nodded, rubbing her eyes. "I want a Happy Meal. With an Elsa toy."

I glanced at Dad, my lips pressing into a thin line. "I don't think they have McDonald's here, Hailey."

Her face crumpled, her lower lip trembling in that way that always made Dad cave. "Daddy?"

Dad's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. For a brief second, something passed through them. Pain.

"No, pup. No McDonald's," he said quietly. "But there's a diner. We can get burgers."

"Do I get a toy?"

"No. But you can have a sundae."Hailey considered this, her nose scrunching in thought. "With chocolate sauce?"

"Sure."

She brightened instantly, worries forgotten. Kids were resilient like that.

I wasn't.

Cold Creek announced itself with a rusted sign, the letters peeling like dead skin, the metal eaten away by years of rain and neglect.The town itself was a cluster of sagging grey buildings, their facades bleached by sun and wind, their windows dark and watchful. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, weeds pushing through concrete.

The few people on the streets moved slowly, deliberately, their heads turning as our car passed.Their stares lingered, heavy, as if they could see through the glass, straight through me.

Dad pulled into a parking spot outside a diner with a flickering neon sign: Grace's Diner. The building looked frozen in the 1970s, its windows smudged, red vinyl booths visible inside, the scent of grease and burnt coffee seeping through the walls.Outside, people seemed to stop all at once, too many for it to be coincidence. They stared.

"Dad?" I whispered, wrapping my arms around my middle. "Why are they staring?"

"Don't mind them," he said, eyes narrowing. "They don't see many strangers."

"Small-town weirdos," I muttered, crossing my arms.

A woman in a faded floral dress froze mid-step, her head snapping toward me as if I'd shouted. For a heartbeat, I thought she'd heard me. Then her nostrils flared, her eyes narrowed, and she turned away, hurrying into the shadow of an alley.

The moment we stepped inside, the hum of conversation died.

Every head turned.

Every eye fixed on us.

Hailey pressed closer to Dad, her fingers digging into his sleeve, her breathing quick and shallow. Even Dad tensed, his grip tightening on her shoulder, his stance squaring as if bracing for a fight.

"Just ignore them," he murmured, guiding us toward an empty booth.It was impossible.

The silence pressed in from all sides. The stares felt wrong. Hungry.

A waitress approached, a pretty blonde with a smile stretched just a little too wide, her teeth just a little too sharp. Her nametag read Grace.

"Hello, Gabe," she said, her voice honey-sweet, her gaze flicking between us with open fascination.

Dad didn't smile back. "Grace."

"It's been a long time." Her eyes slid to me, then to Hailey, lingering a beat too long. "I didn't know you had...children."

The word scraped under my skin, as if it didn't quite belong in her mouth.

"As you can see, I do," Dad said evenly, a warning threaded through his tone.

Grace's smile faltered. "Jason agreed to this?"

"He did."

She hesitated, frowned, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. "But they're hu-"

"We'll take two burgers," Dad cut in sharply. "And a sundae for the little one."

Grace opened her mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it. She walked away, but the weight of the diner's attention never lifted.

"What the hell was that?" I hissed, my hands shaking against the edge of the table.

Dad's fingers tapped once, twice. "Not here."

"Dad-"

"Kelsey. Later." The tone of his voice offered no room for debate.

The food arrived quickly, as if they wanted us gone as soon as possible.

The burger was undercooked, pink in the middle, the faint scent of blood turning my stomach. I pushed the plate away.

When we stepped back outside, the stares followed us all the way to the car.