Page 15 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“Zach—”

“Forget it,” he interrupts.

Resting his head against the door, he shuts his eyes and angles himself away from me, effectively ending the conversation. My grip on the steering wheel tightens in frustration.

Another tense hour later, we pull into the narrow, cobbled streets of Highbridge. Nestled amidst the picturesque countryside, it’s a medium-sized town and our closest source of supplies.

It takes both of us to load up the truck with enough propane for the fifteen cabins that occupy Briar Valley, three of which are still being built. Lola is an absolute stickler for being prepared for all eventualities.

While we’re heading out of the winter months now, the weather can still be unpredictable. We were snowed in for weeks in December, though we have enough allotments and greenhouses to be self-sufficient for food.

Regardless, I’m glad to see the first whispers of spring. Zach and I spend our days working for Lola, performing town maintenance and building cabins. It’s a lot easier when we’re not being pelted with snow or rain.

“Let’s stop and get some booze,” Zach suggests, locking the truck bed. “We still have time to get back for the party.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

He’s a notorious lightweight when it comes to alcohol and often makes a complete fool of himself, even after only a few beers. And I’m the idiot that has to deal with it.

“Lighten up. It’s a party, isn’t it?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” I grumble. “Go on then. I’ll wait here.”

He punches me in the shoulder before heading for the nearby liquor store. Propped against the back of the truck, I study my surroundings, my skin tight with discomfort.

A few of the locals give me a wave of greeting or the odd smile, but none dare approach. Briar Valley has a reputation for being notoriously private, and I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with people spouting bullshit.

We simply prefer to keep to ourselves up on the mountain, but most locals think we’re fucking satanists or some shit like that. In reality, we just like to be left alone.

“Killian!”

My head perks up.

“You’re just the man I wanted to see.”

Jogging over to me, Trevor offers me a hand to shake, his face shielded by a well-worn baseball cap. He runs the local bar and has bailed Zach out of trouble several times.

“What’s up, Trev?”

“We had some woman asking for information yesterday,” he answers. “Wanted to know all about Briar Valley.”

“What? Who was she?”

“Never seen her before. She was beat up pretty bad, barely able to walk. Got a scrawny little kid with her too. Friend of yours?”

“Do I look like I have friends?” I drawl.

Trevor shrugs. “Ain’t my business to presume, but she wasn’t asking for you. Claimed she was new in town.”

“Who did she ask for, then?”

“Your Grams. By name.”

Unease prickling across my scalp, I glance around to ensure no one is close by or listening to us. Not many people know Lola’s full name. She’s even more private than me.

We don’t socialise with outsiders beyond the odd business transaction and our monthly supply runs into town. That’s exactly how we like it.

“You know where she went?” I ask neutrally.

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