EXCERPT 1:
Eirianwen ripped out the earpiece and slammed it onto the desk. Panic swirled at the edges of her mind, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. She grabbed a larger bag from under the desk, slung it over her shoulder, and stormed out. In the closet, she set the bag aside, pressing a hidden panel on the side of her bed. A drawer slid open, revealing her arsenal. Her hands shook as she armed herself, snapping a knife into its sheath and loading a handgun with quick, practiced movements. Now, to find them. Moving swiftly, she ran through the house, slipping out the back door and straight into the storm-charged air. Sullivan’s workshop. If she was going to do this right, she’d need a shovel. She yanked open the heavy wooden door, eyes darting over the mess inside.Where the fuck is it? Why is this place always such a goddamn disaster? 

A glint of metal under the workbench caught her eye. She crouched, snatched up a spade, and bolted back outside. The rain had started in earnest, cold drops slicing through the thick humidity. She sprinted to where the trackers last pinged, her boots sinking slightly into the softening earth, almost tripping thanks to a low spot. Looking back at the spot, it was all wrong. She knew something was buried there. 

Gripping the shovel tightly, she drove it into the ground. The soil gave easily…far too easily. The clay should have been a nightmare to dig through. Someone had already done the work for her. Within moments, her blade hit something solid, and dread curled in her stomach. She dropped to her knees, clawing at the loose earth with bare hands until the objects were free. Her breath hitched. Six trackers. All of them. Cold, useless, and buried like a mockery of her own paranoia. Eirianwen sat back on her heels, mud caking her fingers as she stared at the pile in her hands. Someone knew. 

Her cheeks burned hot, but the rest of her body felt frozen. Tears welled, spilling silently down her face as the questions flooded in. Why? Why would Sullivan do this? Had he done this? He wouldn’t put the kids in danger—would he? Where were they? How long had he planned this? Her stomach twisted. Then, her phone buzzed—a single notification. Hands trembling, she 

wiped her palms on her pants and yanked it from her pocket. Wi-Fi restored—a new alert. Someone had just crossed the perimeter. 

“It better be Sullivan and the kids.” 

Eirianwen exhaled sharply, swiping at the sweat and tears streaking her face. Standing, she brushed the dirt from her clothes as best she could, shoving the useless trackers deep into her pocket. She locked her phone and steadied herself. If the kids were with Sullivan, she needed to stay calm. Normal. They couldn’t see the weapons strapped under her clothing. At least the incoming storm gave her an excuse to rush them inside. She’d get them safe first—then she’d deal with Sullivan. She turned toward the tree line, heart pounding in her throat. The property was massive, and she had built the house at its farthest edge. Finally, headlights cut through the gloom. A vehicle emerged. Not Sullivan’s truck. A cold, electric jolt shot down her spine. Every instinct screamed at her.

No one came out here. No one. She had made sure of it. For years, she had meticulously crafted the illusion of a perfectly ordinary life. She knew everyone in town—just enough to avoid suspicion, but never enough to invite curiosity. A delicate balance of friendly but distant. She never gave anyone a reason to visit. She didn’t even use their real address! She picked up all of their mail and deliveries in town. So who the hell thought they had the right to pull up to her house? The SUV slowed to a stop, tires crunching against the gravel. The doors swung open in near unison, and two men stepped out. Sheriff Ford. Deputy Pines. Ford adjusted his jacket, his gaze steady, unreadable. Pines lingered a step behind, eyes sharp, scanning. Ford closed the gap between them and gave Eirianwen a curt nod. 

EXCERPT 2:
Ford stood at the window, his mind tangled in a mess of chaos and despair. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had watched, helpless, as Winnie’s world crumbled. Every plan he had meticulously constructed lay in ruins, slipping through his fingers like sand. He stared down at the city. The streets stretched out in neat grids, cars crawling through traffic, people walking briskly on sidewalks, oblivious to the fact that everything—everything—had just gone to hell. It was all so… foreign. Like looking at a painting of a world he no longer belonged to. 

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He needed to think. To plan. To do something. Anything to anchor himself in something tangible. But his thoughts churned, directionless. He felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out of him and discarded. He knew he shouldn’t be impatient with Winnie. Not after everything. But didn’t she realize they didn’t have time for distractions? Every second counted, and here she was, wandering off for coffee, or getting lost in hallways like none of this was urgent. Like they weren’t standing at the edge of a knife. He clenched his jaw. He should cut her some slack. He just… wasn’t sure how. Lost in his own head, Ford never heard the quiet steps approaching behind him. He never sensed her creeping closer, waiting for just the right moment. Then— 

“BOO!” 

Ford flinched, jerking back as his heart shot into his throat. His mind scrambled for fight-or-flight before he turned and found himself face to face with Winnie’s smirking expression. “Fucking hell, Winnie.” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Is this really how we’re starting the day?” 

Eirianwen’s smirk softened, but she only shrugged. She stared down at the floor for a moment, as if reconsidering her life choices. 

Ford scoffed. “Well, at least you’ve still got some reflexes. That might be the only silver lining.”

She huffed a quiet laugh but said nothing. Together, they turned back to the window, the city sprawled beneath them. The world outside was waking up, full of movement, full of possibility. But for Eirianwen, it all felt impossibly distant. 

She rubbed her arms, as if trying to soothe something raw beneath the surface. How had she let herself get so comfortable? So complacent? She should have known better. Trust no one. It was a lesson she had learned young. One she had lived by for years. Yet somehow, somehow, she had convinced herself that Sullivan was different. That this town was different. That she could…Her stomach twisted. She had paid the price for that mistake. Thirty-five. A childless widow. The enormity of it crushed her, an avalanche of grief and regret swallowing her whole. She had trusted Sullivan when she knew what he was. When she knew what he was capable of. And now…Her children were gone. Their blood was on her hands. She swallowed hard, willing the thoughts away before they swallowed her. 

Ford nudged her, gently breaking through the storm in her head. He held out a cup of coffee. She took it, inhaling the scent deeply. Real coffee, rich and strong—not the weak, watery stuff from the waiting room. 

She arched a brow at him. “Well, well. Not waiting room coffee. Look at you, Ford, going all out.” He smirked and nudged her back. “Only the best, Hughes.” 

The name hit her like a slap. She froze. For a moment, she wasn’t here. She was there—years ago, when Hughes had been her name, when it had meant something. Before everything changed. Before her world shattered. She had hated taking Sullivan’s name, resented the way it had swallowed up everything she had once been. But hearing Ford say Hughes now? It felt wrong. Like a ghost of a life she could never return to. 

Ford noticed the slight crease in her brow. “What’s wrong, Kiddo? I mean, aside from the obvious?” 

A small smirk tugged at her lips as she rolled her eyes. 

“I can always go back to Fletcher, if you prefer?” 

Her head snapped toward him, her glare sharp as a blade. 

Ford held up his hands in surrender, lips twitching. “Right. Maybe Findlay, then?” Her glare only deepened. “Ford, if you don’t shut the fuck up—” 

A chuckle escaped him, despite himself. He never meant to push too far, but words—God, words always seemed to escape him at the worst times. He tried to say the right thing, but it always came out wrong. He wasn’t a clumsy soul, but with Winnie it seemed he was always tripping over his own wit and tongue.

EXCERPT 3:
With the sisters on their way, his few meager possessions packed, and a round of unhelpful phone calls made, Ford was ready to leave. He leaned back in his seat, the car door still ajar, and let his gaze drift over the landscape. Thirteen years. And for what? He never wanted to be here in the first place, yet for thirteen years, this had been home. Now, sitting outside for one last time, he realized—home wasn’t a place. Not for him, anyway. It wasn’t the walls or the town. It wasn’t the fog, the trees, or the smell of frost. It was something else, something he hadn’t figured out yet. 

Soft light struggled to flicker through thick, overcast skies. The chilly air fired off warning shots of the impending winter, blending with the last breaths of autumn. Fog curled around the landscape, thick and endless, wrapping everything in an ethereal veil. And somehow, the muted gray made the colors stand out even more. The sharp scent of forest and frost wove through the air, settling deep in his lungs. Ford reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. 

He’d spent years wanting to leave, yet now that he was free to go, he found himself hesitating—clinging to things he’d once sworn he never wanted to be around. If he left, was he giving up? He exhaled and rolled down the window, finally pulling the door shut. He giggled to himself, rolling his eyes as he debated tossing the cigar out the window. Almost. Instead, he took one last drag and put it in a tube, tossing it into the console. 3,300 miles. Just him and Brockett. Nothing slowing him down. Nothing in his way. This would be the most efficient trip he’d ever taken—quick, quiet, and empty. 

“What kind of road trip doesn’t turn into a whole ass ordeal?” he muttered. 

Ford snorted and shook his head. “Fuck, maybe I should’ve just taken a plane.” But it was too late for that now. And, really, he hadn’t planned this move out that well. At first, it had been a fleeting thought when Eirianwen left. Then, a half-formed plan. Just moving a few things to Maine. He’d already paid to ship two vehicles across the country—he wasn’t about to pay for a third. 

He glanced at the console, scowling. “What a waste of a perfectly good cigar.” Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes. “Maybe I should sleep first. Or just drive. If I push through, I could make it in two or three days. Maybe.” He sighed and opened his eyes, staring at the sky. “But why rush?” 

He didn’t have to go slow, but he wasn’t missing the stars. The drive had always been his favorite part. There was something about watching the landscape shift, the sky fading from day into night, the stars slowly emerging one by one. He knew he’d have to stop a few times—for gas, for food, to let Brockett out—but that didn’t matter. He was going to make the most of this. Ford adjusted everything in the car, making sure it was all set up in the most efficient way possible. Because the first order of business? Not thinking about a fucking thing for the next few days. His life had imploded in a matter of weeks, and for the first time in ages, he only had himself to think about. He could put himself first, and damn it was eerie. Ford glanced at the

console and reached for the tube holding his unfinished cigar. He hesitated, then shrugged. “Eh, why the hell not?” Lighting up, he took a deep breath, savoring the taste. A small, fleeting smile crossed his lips. One last drag, then he crushed it out in a cup. “I can have a damn cigar if I want one. Even if it’s a shitty, half-finished one.” He exhaled, leaning back against the seat. “This is a lot. I need a minute.” 

The past month had been an absolute whirlwind. His entire life had turned upside down, and every bit of chaos traced back to Eirianwen. Ford’s head spun just thinking about it—too many questions, not enough answers. And no one had anything useful for him. Except for one thing: Maine. 

“I have to go. It’s the only way. Just get the fuck past everything.”