“I don’t understand.”

The chair is hard as stone beneath me, only adding to my discomfort as I try to comprehend the legal documents in my hand. It’s been three weeks since he’s been gone. Three weeks since that day at the hospital. Yet uneasiness still rolls over me at just the mention of his name, let alone seeing his handwriting. His signature.

The stranger before me removes his glasses, setting them aside as he centers his brown gaze on mine, adjusts his suit collar. “It’s simple, really. Just as the papers state. Just as I’ve already explained. Mr. Thomas Matteo Blackwood has left everything to you.”

“Everything. As in . . .”

“His property and all possessions within. His money. His vehicle.”

“Everything,” I repeat again, still unable to grasp it.

“Yes, ma’am. Once again, that’s everything.”

I swallow, my eyes glued to the letters right here in front of me. Clear as day. Holy shit. The cancer-hiding bastard left me everything.

I knew he was a big softie.

Claire smiles at me from across the boutique. I smile back, because that’s what normal people do. When Bobby and his mom follow suit, catching my gaze as he pays for his items, I plaster an identical grin on my face for their benefit as well. It seems to please everyone, because they all look away and continue their transaction.

A glint from Bobby’s pants pocket drags my gaze downward, to the key ring that’s half hanging out, revealing the latest AA chip he’s earned. Claire’s been taking him to weekly AA meetings, now that Dylan’s out of the picture—thanks to last month, when he stormed into the inn without realizing Bobby was there. Big mistake. They ended up getting a restraining order on the dickhead, and we found out the next day he was fired from his job, too. Just the cherry on top. Claire’s been worry free lately, back to her bubbly nature and encouraging Bobby every step of the way, and he hasn’t had another slip up since that one night.

Although the sobriety mission has done nothing to take the heat off me. They’ve both been extra concerned about me ever since Mr. Blackwood’s passing, offering to take me out almost daily. This is the first time I’ve agreed to it over these past two months, and only because Bobby’s mom is in town and I never could resist her motherly charm. How could I say no to a universal mother? That’d be like turning down Mrs. Weasley. Exactly, it isn’t done.

It hasn’t been the worst thing, having such close tabs over me. It’s forced me to adult, to take care of things I should’ve dealt with long ago. Starting with Grams’s house. I called the realtor several weeks ago, and we accepted an offer. I smile vaguely, recalling the family I chose. I think Grams would be happy with them living in her home—a single mother with a young daughter.

The soft sound of Claire’s laughter brings me back to the boutique, my gaze finding her and Bobby huddled close together as his mom takes her turn at the register. Bobby’s leaning forward, wearing that goofy grin as he whispers something in her ear, and she giggles again, a rosy blush reddening her cheeks. I don’t miss the way his fingers tenderly entwine around hers or the squeeze she gives his hand in return. The boutique is dimly lit, but the way they’re positioned beside the shop’s window casts a romantic glow over them.

The sight is both soothing and painful to the broken pieces of my soul.

Really, Bobby and Claire are a perfect fit. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. She gives him the courage to stay strong, and he gives her the love she deserves.

My fingers dart to my ring, rubbing it like it has the power to grant me three wishes. I haven’t told anyone about the dreams. The dreams that returned to me ever since my fingers grazed Enzo’s smoky trail more than two months ago. They don’t come every day, but even once a week is enough to hurt. Enough to remind me how much I miss him. How much I hope he’s somehow okay.

I close my eyes, trying to block the thoughts from my mind. I can’t think of him. Not out in public. Alone in my room, yes. I spend every waking second consumed by thoughts of him when I’m locked up behind the privacy of my own four walls, where I’m free to cry and suffer in peace. But not here. Not now.

“You ready?” Claire’s chirpy voice calls me back to the shop again, and I nod.

“Ready.”

The ride is longer than usual, since Mr. Blackwood’s property is farther from the small shopping strip than the inn is. No one seemed to mind when Bobby offered to drop me off. I give them each a hug, Bobby’s mom getting an extra long one, before hopping out of his truck, then wave until they’re past the gate, away from view.

Slowly, I turn around to face the house. A wave of uneasiness runs through me, leaving my body heavy and clammy. It doesn’t feel right, being here. It’s too empty. Too quiet. I know he left the place to me, but this is my first time at his door since my strike. I’m not even sure why I had them drop me off here today. Maybe for closure. Maybe so I won’t feel so alone. I shake my head, forcing my stiff fingers to untuck the key from my pocket and unlock the door.

Plates of stale food greet me when I walk in. Three empty glasses sit around the Three Ships Whiskey centerpiece on the coffee table. Papers are littered over the couch and bookshelf.

I have to lean one hand on the sofa for support as I take in the moment of déjà vu. It looks just like it did the first day I ever stepped inside. And just like that first day, I’m walking on eggshells.

I don’t let myself stare for long before I’m up the stairs, not stopping until I’m standing in the doorway of his bedroom. His bed isn’t made. The comforter is pulled back in one corner, and a coffee mug sits on the nightstand. It’s like he just stepped away and is coming right back.

The whole feel of the room is drab and dark, no thanks to the thick curtains he always kept pulled shut. So gloomy and depressing. Where’s the sunlight? Where’s the sign of another day? Eyes on the curtains, I march across the room, determination in every step. I grab ahold of the material with both hands and shove it to the side until light pours inside. It’s not sunny today, but the daylight casts a faint stream over the room, just right. Gives the place a little life. Much better.

I turn back to the window for a final glance, and a piece of land with dried up grass and wild weeds catches my eye. I recognize it immediately.

The house isn’t there anymore, just a pile of logs and barren land, but still, somehow I know. Maybe it’s from trudging along the same dirt when it became mud as I carried little Tommy to the neighboring shed. Maybe it’s from the old photo of the monster sitting in a chair on that very dirt as he eyed the camera, not a care in the world. Whatever the reason, I know.

That’s the Hawkins land. And Mr. Blackwood’s house, up on the lone hill, is the only one with a clear view of it.

I take a step back, but not before grabbing the curtains and yanking them shut again. So this is why he bought this place? A house too big for him, with rooms that went unused, and stairs he had to climb with his limp. I shake my head, trying to understand. Had he been reminiscing or punishing himself? The fact he’d made sure to keep the land out of sight, locked up tight behind these curtains, makes me willing to bet on the latter.

I whirl around, striding toward the hallway and closing the door firmly behind me. He may have been sardonic about it, but I’m not. I’ve only ever seen the place in my dreams, and even that’s enough to keep me from ever wanting to see it again.

I make my way down the steps, and I’m about to rush out the front door when I stop. I flick my gaze to my right, where the crinkled pieces of paper rest. Before I can stop myself, I pluck one up and open it. It’s a sketch of our little town, and lines and dots are blanketed over it with terms too brainy for me to understand. Then I grab another one, smoothing out the wrinkles. This one is a note.

Two lines.

Seven words.

I’m so sorry.

I’ll never give up.

My hand comes up over my chest as I reread the scribbled letters, then glance at the freshly scattered papers around me. He lied to me. He never stopped trying. Never lost faith. Until the day he died, he fought for a way to save Enzo.

I carefully set the note down on the table, fingers already trembling again as the realization seeps into my bones. My heart. My soul.

No, he never gave up.

And I never will either.

The knife looms over Tommy’s stomach, just about to make its mark. Not today, you son of a bitch.

Hands still bound to the chair, I lean forward and spin around, then lunge backward until I feel the solid force of impact. The monster roars as one of the chair legs digs into him, and I’m frantic as I look back at Tommy. I don’t know how much time I can buy for him.

“Run! Take the damn chair with you for all I care. Just RUN!”

Tommy’s hazel eyes go wide, but after a shell-shocked pause, he mimics me, leaning forward until the chair bound to his arms lifts off the ground. He’s wobbling toward the front door, quick as his legs will take him, but I don’t get to see how far he makes it before I’m yanked back, crashing against the ground. I cry out with the snap of my shoulder popping out of place, the weight of the chair pulling against bone.

The monster leers at me, then makes for the exit. For Tommy.

I lunge again, this time knocking him down with the force of my head against his back, and we both go tumbling. Something else snaps, but the pain’s taken over so much of my body that I can’t pinpoint where the sound comes from this time. My hands get back to work behind me, tugging hard against the rope.

A grunt sounds from beside me. I turn to see the monster pulling himself back to his feet. “So that’s how you wanna do this? You really think you can fight me and win?”

I’m still lying sideways on the floor, limbs twisted awkwardly around the chair. The taste of metal swirls in my mouth, around my teeth, and I spit out a mouthful of blood. Then I lift my chin to look him straight in the eyes. “Any day, Pops. Any fuckin’ day.”

His face twists, turning beet red.

He charges.

Boot-clad toes meet my ribcage, sucking the air from my lungs. My hands freeze at the wave of pain, but soon they’re at it again. Looser and looser the rope becomes, fueling me with the fire I need to take him down. Just as that second kick comes, I feel it. The rope drops to the floor. I’m free.

The next time that boot comes, it’s in my grip, and I twist. He crashes to the ground, crying out. Takes him a second to level his gaze at me, but when he does, his eyes drop to my freed hands. Then they go wide, and he scoots back on his elbows as I push myself up. Pain licks at my ribs, my wrists, my mouth, my shoulder. Everywhere. I don’t wince. I learned to block out the pain long ago. My eyes narrow in disgust as he cowers before me, his expression a silent plea for mercy. “Thought you wanted a fight.”

Before he can respond, the creak of a screen door has me whipping my head over my shoulder.

Tommy stands in the doorway.

With our neighbor.

My eyes squeeze shut for the briefest second. Why’d you have to come back for me, Tommy? The damn stubborn idiot.

Fingers wrap around my ankle, and I hit the floor. Nausea washes over me as the brunt of the impact strikes my shoulder. I hear a scream, but it’s not mine. Tommy’s running, fists swinging. He’s a lot smaller than I am, lanky too, and the monster knows it. He gives a single solid swing of his own, straight across Tommy’s jaw, and the boy goes crashing down beside me with a thump.

A growl rips through me. Just as I begin to pick myself up, my gaze is locked straight down the barrel of a revolver.

The room stills, silence falling over us like the death sentence we all know this is. I didn’t know there was a gun in this house. The monster’s eyes are wild, manic. And afraid. There’s a tremor in his fingers, causing the barrel to shake. “It’s you or me, boy. You or me.”

I hear a click. The final nail to my coffin. But the bullet never comes. Because a hard thunk sounds behind him. His eyes roll back, and he collapses in a heap before me.

Mrs. Mulligan stands above the three of us, a cast-iron frying pan in her tight grip. Her face is stoic as ever, eyes filled with determination as she stares down at him, but her chest heaves. Slowly, when he stays down, motionless, she lowers the instrument. Shifts her gaze to me and Tommy. And I somehow manage to breathe again. To relax a little.

I don’t know how she does it with the close tabs Chief Mulligan keeps on her, and I don’t know why she risks it, either. But the woman always comes through for us.

“Thank you,” I whisper between pants, one arm wrapped around my tender ribs.

She doesn’t say you’re welcome. Hardly allows us to see the glint of fear in her eyes over the near-death experience we just had. She nods, turns to Tommy, and lowers herself down before him. She places a hand beneath his chin, tilting his head as she inspects his jaw. She looks satisfied when she turns back to me, her eyes roaming over my injuries.

“You boys will be all right. But we need to get out of here. Now.”

“Not yet.” I shake my head. “You need to leave, yes. But us, we’ll never be able to run from him.” We know this, because we’ve tried. She knows this, because she’s the one who’s had to clean our wounds whenever he caught us. And he always catches us.

Next time, he’ll go for the kill. Next time, he’ll go for Tommy alone. Next time . . . well, there won’t be a next time.

When I turn to Tommy, his eyes narrow. There’s that fire again, burning bright, and I know his mind is right there with mine when we shift our attention to the unconscious lump beside us. I feel the outline of the matchbox in my back pocket, red flames dancing in my eyes.

“There’s just one more thing we need to do before we leave.”