Chapter one
Lila
Coming home smells like wild mint, motor oil, and unfinished conversations.
The gravel crunches under my tires as I turn onto Sycamore Lane, and just like that, Starling Grove swallows me whole. Everything looks the same. The same tidy porches with their hanging ferns, the same mailboxes leaning slightly left, the same cats sunning themselves in brazen indifference on driveways they don’t own.
It’s like the town paused when I left and only hit “play” again the second I drove back in.
I park in front of my mom’s house and kill the engine. The cicadas are in full choir mode—noisy, relentless, like nature's version of an anxiety attack. A warm breeze stirs the spring air, carrying the scent of apple blossoms and distant barbecue smoke. It’s too hot for both sweaters and feelings, and yet here I am, wearing both.
I don’t cry. I just sit. My fingers grip the steering wheel a moment longer than necessary.
So this is what it looks like when a dream implodes.
I climb out, yank my suitcase from the trunk, and drag it up the path. The little frog statue is still there by the porch steps, chipped and weather-faded but stubbornly intact. Kind of like me, I guess. I nod at it, like we have an understanding.
The door’s unlocked, of course. This is Starling Grove—people leave their keys under flowerpots and their hearts in plain sight.
Inside, the air smells faintly of lemon polish, old paperbacks, and the vanilla candles my mom insists help with “energy balance.” The furniture is exactly where it always was. Same plaid couch. Same creaky floorboard in front of the kitchen. Same framed cross-stitch above the fireplace: Bless This Mess.
I drop my suitcase by the stairs and collapse onto the couch. It groans like it remembers me.
“You're back,” I mutter to myself, staring up at the ceiling. “Big city girl, tail between legs, dreams duct-taped together.” Mom had mentioned she wouldn’t be home—prime time to pick up her annuals. Not to mention pick up town gossip.
I shouldn’t be here. Part of me still doesn’t believe the whole HR “budget cuts” talk had happened at all. Living in the big city didn’t give me a lot of budget flex, so I’d had to do budget cuts of my own, leaving behind my tiny apartment and selling most of my furniture.
Mom hadn’t been thrilled that I was coming home, either, but she’d lit up several vanilla candles and made peace with it.
See this as an opportunity,my brother had said.You always did want to write that novel.
I groan. All I want to do is vanish into these couch pillows, but I know me. If I don’t do something, anything, I’ll fall into a pit of despair, conveniently located in these comfy couch pillows. Terrible for writing or job hunting.
With an expansive sigh, I get up and light a candle. A bit of atmosphere, plus maybe mom is on to something. I’m an omega, after all, and react to scents more than I’d like to, at times. Heatsuppressants have kept me away from alphas, but maybe vanilla will soothe my heart and let my brain find its words.
I pull out my laptop. My really old laptop, since the company reclaimed their fancy one. It glares at me from the coffee table, the cracked lama sticker on the lid peeling like it’s tired too. I lean forward and open it. It wheezes to life with a fan like a tiny jet engine. The screen lights up. Blank document. Blinking cursor.
No time like the present.
I type:
Chapter One
Then just sit there. The words don’t come. Nothing comes.
I write a sentence, immediately delete it. Type a different one. Backspace. Re-type. It’s a loop now, one I can’t seem to break.
My mouth tastes stale, like coffee and disappointment. I lean back, dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. Maybe I should’ve just applied for that assistant position at the library. Or tried barista life again. At least lattes don’t require plot structure.
I reach for my phone.
Harper would’ve known what to say. My best friend since fifth grade. She was the first one who read my stories, who told me they were good when I didn’t believe it. We haven’t talked in a while. There was a slow drift—college, jobs, the usual excuses—but I’m back in Starling Grove and maybe this was a chance to reconnect with her.
I scroll to her old contact. Last time I reached out to her was five years ago. Well, there’s no opening line like a murder mystery. Harper and I always shared a good sense of humor. I grin and type.
If someone were hypothetically disposing of a body in Starling Lake, past the first line of islands where the water is deeper, how long would it take them to get the body weighed down with rocks?
I hit send before I can overthink it.