Page 20 of Shattered Promise

Her voice wavers slightly as her gaze darts toward the side of my face.

"Oh, that's nice of you. But, uh, how do you know where I live?" I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

She laughs—a little too quickly, a little too high. “Oh! I looked at your new hire paperwork. I know that’s probably weird, I just . . . I felt awful after what happened last night. I figured you might need something. Caffeine or sugar.” She lifts each hand,waggling the items like peace offerings. “Iced shaken espresso. And cinnamon rolls. Still warm.”

My mouth opens, then closes again. “That’s . . . thoughtful of you,” I say slowly, taking the drink she hands me out of sheer reflex. "That's my favorite."

“I know.” She grins.

I glance down at the cup and force a smile that feels paper-thin. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do this.”

Beth shrugs, gaze flicking to my cheek and then quickly away. “How’s your face?”

“Fine,” I say, too fast. “It looks worse than it is.”

She hesitates, like she wants to say something else, then decides against it. Instead, she nudges the pastry bag closer. “Cinnamon roll? You probably didn’t eat anything this morning.”

I shake my head, still holding the cup. “I appreciate it, but I'm good, thanks."

Her expression falters as her eyes drop to the suitcase at my side. “Heading out of town? Back to Avalon Falls again?"

“Something like that,” I murmur. “Just need a break. A change of scenery.”

Beth’s smile tightens. “That’s fair. Everyone needs to recharge now and then.”

I nod, already stepping toward the curb where my Uber idles, the driver glancing up from his phone.

Beth shifts her weight, hesitating like she might say more. But then she just lifts the bag slightly in goodbye. “Well . . . safe travels.”

“Thanks.” I open the car door. “And really, thanks for checking in.”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Anytime.”

I slide into the back seat and pull the door shut. Only when we merge into traffic do I let out a slow, shaking breath. The cupis cold in my hand. I don’t drink it. I just hold it, eyes on the blur of buildings and sidewalks outside the window.

Nana Jo used to say the best way to quiet your mind was to move your body.

So I’m moving. One mile at a time.

8

MASON

The Carter houserises at the end of the long paved drive, porch lights already glowing warm against the early dusk. Hanging baskets overflow with trailing greenery, and the neat stone path up to the steps is lined with flowers Hazel probably planted herself. It always looks like this—well-kept, inviting. Like a postcard for a life that never once belonged to me, even when I was practically living here.

Even now, after all these years, something in me tightens when I pull in. Like I’m bracing for the moment someone finally says I don’t belong.

I kill the engine and scan the familiar line of cars. Graham’s truck. Beau’s Challenger, backed in like always.

I glance in the rearview mirror, checking on my son through the baby mirror clipped to the headrest. Theo’s cheeks are flushed pink, his eyelids heavy. He’s still gripping his stuffed lion like it owes him something.

It’s the danger zone. That blurry stretch between nap and bedtime—too late to sleep, too early to crash. If he dozes off for more than ten minutes now, bedtime becomes a full-scale warlater. And believe me, a sleep strike at night is worse than any skipped nap.

I climb out of the truck and open the back door, leaning in. “You ready for chaos, little man?” I murmur as I unbuckle him. His fingers curl tighter around the lion. I nudge his knee gently, just enough to make him blink. “Let’s go charm some Carters.”

This house has always been loud—full of motion, food, voices layered over each other. It’s the kind of place that smells like cinnamon in the fall and charcoal in the summer. Where everyone knocks, sure, but only once before stepping inside.

For most of my life, it’s been the closest thing I’ve had to a safe haven. But even so, there’s always been a line. Not a harsh one—just . . . there. A quiet reminder that this isn’t mine. Not really.

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