Page 135 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I smile, step out, and let the screen door slap shut behind me with a satisfying whack. Outside, the air is thick and sticky—the kind of heat Granny used to call cling-wrap weather. I roll my shoulders back and take a deep breath, letting the breeze sweep across my face, blowing away just a bit of the humidity.

Somewhere out back, I hear the faint sound of music from the shop and Sumi’s sharp, indignant yip.

I catch myself humming—just a little tune, light and aimless—and stop, surprised. I can’t remember the last time I felt good enough to hum. That feeling in my chest keeps growing, till I feel so light that I could almost float away. It’s like everything’s finally settling into place, like I’m becoming who I was always meant to be.

My hand slips into my pocket, fingers brushing my phone. For half a second, I think about calling Colt. He’s probably out somewhere, pretending he doesn’t worry about me as much as Iworry about him. I could catch him up, let him crack a joke about Tomas making an honest woman of me, thank him for the ribs, and even acknowledge he’s been less of a jack-hole than usual.

Shit. Does that mean Vivien’s good for him? I’ll have to discuss this alarming possibility with Shadow later.

I pull the phone out, thumb hovering over his contact. The thought of his dry drawl and that barely-there laugh lingers in my mind, tempting me—but nah. He’s probably busy, and I’ll see him soon enough. No need to interrupt whatever trouble he’s stirring up.

I slip the phone back into my pocket, shaking my head. “Later,” I mutter, my fingers lingering for just a moment before letting go.

A twinge of guilt digs at my stomach. Daddy would want to hear from me, too—a quick check-in, nothing fancy. I picture his handsome face, those eyes that always seem to see right through me. He’d grumble something about taking care of myself, about not getting into too much mischief.

But I push the thought aside. I’ll call him tonight—promise.

The wind sighs through the trees, a low, rustling murmur that sets the leaves trembling. It builds, twisting until the pale undersides flash like a warning. The air carries the faint scent of a garden before the rain, and I love it. It means the heat will break, and the dusty haze will be washed out of the air.

My eyes flick to the horizon, where clouds stack like dark bricks—layer upon layer of gathering menace. A shiver prickles at the base of my spine, but I shove it down. Storms are kind of exciting, after all.

“Just a late spring storm,” I mutter, trying to convince myself as much as the universe. I shake it off, square my shoulders, and head for the shop. There’s a whole afternoon ahead of me, and for once, it feels like the world’s actually on my side.

The rhythmic whine of the belt sander spills from the long, low building, familiar and oddly comforting. Sumi’s bark follows, but it’s fainter this time, farther away—and edged with something that makes my smile falter.

I slow down, gravel crunching beneath my feet, ears straining to catch the next sound.

Then I hear it.

Mishka’s voice, thin and tight with worry, calling from somewhere behind the shop. He’s trying to sound calm and serious, trying to sound like Tomas, but it’s not working. The smile slips away completely as a thread of unease knots itself into my perfect afternoon.

I take a step toward the shop’s open doorway, almost calling out to Ben and Shadow, but a flash of movement inside stops me cold.

A big porch swing, double-sized and half-assembled, is propped up on sawhorses. The wood is smooth, freshly sanded. The scent of sawdust and paint lingers in the air, tugging at memories of Daddy’s many handyman moments. Lazy afternoons spent swinging with a glass of sweet tea drift through my mind.

My heart squeezes. They’re making this for me.A surprise.

I love surprises, and this is a good one. The porch furniture we have is beautiful, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t head straight for Colt’s swing whenever we’re at the farm. And they noticed.

But the warmth of that realization fades as the wind shifts, carrying Mishka’s voice again—more urgent this time. I turn away from the swing, the sense of foreboding curling tighter in my chest.

My hand lifts halfway, the words ready to spill out. I’m about to wave to them, ask for help—but I stop myself. Let them finish. They’ve gone through the trouble of keeping it a secret, and I’ve demanded more than enough attention lately.

I shake off the tightness in my chest. Sumi’s just a puppy—he probably got tangled in something. And Mishka? Well, kids worry about the darndest things.

I can handle this

The gravel crunches beneath my feet, sharp rocks jabbing through the thin soles of my flats. I wince, shifting my weight with each step. Up ahead, the horse barn looms, its weathered wood stark against the darkening sky. I scan the paddock, searching for a flash of Mishka’s hair or Sumi dashing between hummocks of overgrown weeds.

Nothing.

A sharp gust rattles the chained barn doors, the clatter echoing through the empty yard. A shiver snakes down my spine, the air heavier now, dampness clinging to my arms. I’m grateful for the long sleeves, but it’s a cold comfort when the smell of rain is thick enough to taste.

“Fuck a duck,” I mutter, squinting at the clouds merrily assembling an anvil to drop on our heads.

I don’t want Mishka getting soaked to the bone out here. He’s tough, sure, but he’s still just a kid. And Sumi? That little mutt’s wet-dog smell could clear a room on a good day. He needs a bath anyway, but Lord help me if I have to deal with that stink all the way back to the house.

“Mishka!” I call, my voice sharp enough to cut through the wind. The sound bounces back at me, then vanishes, swallowed by the rising gusts.

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