She was laughing.

Really laughing, head tipped back, hair flying, cheeks flushed pink with cold and joy. Her boots kicked forward and back, and the rope creaked with each swing.

For a second, the sight of her hit me so hard my chest constricted.

Because she looked safe.

She looked like a kid again, not a little refugee dragged across states by grief and silence. Not a child sleeping with her teddy clutched like armor.

I stood there and watched until she noticed me and squealed.

"Kelsey!" she shouted, waving one hand wildly. "Look!"

"I'm looking," I called back, and tried to smile like it didn't hurt.

She pumped her legs harder, swinging higher. "Dad made it! It's the best swing ever!"

Of course he did.

He was trying.

He was trying so hard it was breaking him. And it still wasn't enough.

I looked up at the house. And saw Jack.

He stood near the woodpile, sleeves rolled up, splitting logs with an axe like it was nothing. He moved with efficiency, each swing clean, exact.

But what stopped me wasn't the strength.

It was the lack of… anything else.

No heavy breathing. No sweat on his temples. No sweat stains on his shirt. No redness in his face from exertion.

Just the steady, controlled motion of chopping one log after another.

I stared, a cold prickle crawling over my skin.

Maybe he was just in good shape.

Maybe he was the kind of person who didn't sweat much.

Maybe I was paranoid.

But once I noticed it, my brain wouldn't let it go.

Because in that moment I realized I had never seen Dad sweat either.

Not in the car, not in the barn, not even when he carried boxes up the stairs. Not even... Not even back home.

It was the kind of detail you ignore until you can't.

Jack's eyes lifted and landed on me in a silent acknowledgment that he knew I was watching him watching me.

Sweat, that same sweat he didn't have, now coated my palms.

I looked away and went inside.

 

Inside, the house smelled like cleaning solution and old wood, like Elise had desperately tried to scrub the underlying smells away. The kitchen was too neat. The counters were wiped to a shine. A dish towel hung perfectly straight on the oven handle.

Elise stood at the sink rinsing something. She turned when I entered, her smile already in place.

"Kelsey," she said brightly, smiling so wide I could count her teeth. "I haven't seen you today yet. How was school?"

How I hated that smile.

My own smile rose on instinct, and I hated that I was doing it too, that I was meeting her with something equally fake.

"Fine," I said. "Just… settling, you know?"

Elise's eyes flicked over my face, my posture, the way my hands held my backpack strap. She cataloged me like she was taking inventory.

"Well," she said softly, "you will settle, have no worry about that. You're ours."

The word landed in a way that made all little hairs all over my body stand up on unison. I nodded anyway.

"Okay," I said. "I'm going to rest a bit, I'm tired."

"Of course, dear," she chirped, too pleasant.

I went upstairs before unease could burst through my skin and walked into mine and Hailey's room. As always, it was pleasantly quiet.

My gaze fell to my bag, the one I carried in my lap when we arrived, still sitting by the dresser where I left it.

I unzipped it and dumped the contents out, searching for one thing.

Mom's scarf.

It was soft, pale yellow, worn at the edges, still holding a trace of her perfume, faint now, but there.

I pressed it to my face and just let myself imagine she was here.

The familiar scent hit my chest like an open wound. Floral and warm, like sunlight on clean skin.

For one second, the battle plan disappeared, and I was just a girl in a strange town with no real friends left, a dead mother and a father who looked at the woods like they were waiting to devour us all.

I couldn't breathe. My eyes burned.

I sat on the edge of my bed, held the scarf like it could keep me anchored to reality and wept.

I missed her so hard it felt like nausea.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, furious at myself, then stared down at the contents of the bag scattered upon the linen.

My gaze caught on something small and glinting in the fading light.

The pocketknife.

Grandpa Gerard's ridiculous, expensive pocketknife with the mother-of-pearl handle and thin silver edging.

I'd asked for it as a joke, last year, while obsessing over a tv show where the heroine carried a blade and always ready to cut her way out of trouble. Grandpa had listened with that indulgent smile of his and bought me the most ridiculously expensive version possible, because he could, and because he knew it would piss off Dad. Originally, he'd wanted to buy me a car for my sixteenth birthday, but after my parents' resolute no, he'd gone ahead and gotten me this instead.

I slid it out of the pouch and flipped it open carefully.

The blade caught the light, clean and sharp.

I wasn't sure why I picked it up. I wasn't going to stab anything, the very thought made me sick.

Still, I closed the knife, slipped it into my pocket, and felt the weight settle against my thigh like a talisman.

Then I stood.

I smoothed my hair back, wiped the last of the tears from under my eyes, and walked toward the window. Hailey was still on the swing, laughing, completely oblivious to the shadows surrounding us.

The ghost of my reflection stared at me from the glass, pale face, eyes puffy and red.

But there was something else there.

Resolve.

Okay, I told myself. One conversation down. Harder ones to go.

And even if the thought of going near Jack and Elise made me want to jump out of my skin, I knew I had no choice.

Because it wasn't just about me anymore.

Because if there was even a chance something in this town could hurt my baby sister, if there was even a chance those rules Dad wouldn't explain could touch her, then I couldn't afford to stay scared and small.

And as I gripped the scarf in my fist, I made a silent promise to myself, and to her.

No matter how dark the shadows around us become, they will never get to you.