Lahat ng Kabanata ng Troubled Heart: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

I did not want to leave. The words weren’t on my lips, but they gathered at the back of my throat like a scream I was not allowed to let out. Not when Makayla stood in that cabin doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she were hanging together by sheer willpower. Not when her smile faltered, but when she assured me it was okay. That she’d take care of Stacey. It wasn’t okay. It didn’t sit well. But I nodded anyway and stepped away from the cabin, the flickering fire, and the room that somehow became sacred—hers. I rode beside my father’s truck, my arms crossed over my chest, my jaw locked so hard my ears ached. The heater blew full blast on the windshield, battering the skim of ice already beginning to coat the glass, but the heat couldn’t chase away the cold lump growing in my chest. We had only driven for ten minutes, and I regretted leaving. Leaving her. Leaving Makayla. “You should’ve called,” my father grumbled, his voice low and gravelly as he navigated th

I had been back in my father’s cabin for less than a day and felt suffocated. Everything looked the same—the creaky floorboards, the pine-paneled walls, the old plaid couch smelling of cedar and winter air. But I wasn’t the same. I boiled water for tea I didn’t want, changed into fresh leggings and an oversized sweater, and combed my hair in the narrow hallway mirror. Everything reminded me of Makayla, from the kettle to the quiet. I wanted to text her something stupid, but I didn’t have her number. I should've asked before I left, but Dad was looming nearby with the rescue crew. I felt too awkward and rushed to think of something so small but important as exchanging numbers. I stepped back from the stove, hugging myself. The room felt too quiet—no laughter or teasing, just the water whistle and heavy silence. Dad stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, lost in thought. After the conversation in the truck, he hadn’t said much, but now, as the kettle whined, he finally turned to me.

I hadn't slam the door to my bedroom, though I wanted to. I closed it with slow, deliberate finality—the soft click more satisfying than any burst of anger could’ve been. I hadn't wanted another fight. Not tonight. I needed space. Quiet. And a plan. The leather-bound notebook was clutched tight in my hand, the ridged corner pressing into my palm like a reminder that this wasn’t a dream. It was real. Every word. Every scribbled name. Every threat my father had tried to keep tucked away on a dusty shelf like time would bury it for him. I sank onto my bed, still wrapped in the same oversized sweater I’d changed into that morning. The room hadn’t changed since I was nineteen. The same faded concert posters that were curling at the edges. The same worn quilt on the twin bed. The same air that smelled of cedar, old paper, and forgotten ambition. But I wasn’t the same. Not anymore. I set the notebook down and reached under my bed, tugging out the fireproof lockbox where I kept my backup so

I knew something was wrong when we left that shiny, cold building. At least we left behind that horrid human. Stacey was never right for my human. I’m glad she finally did something about it. Makayla didn’t say a word. Not one. She just opened the car door like it weighed a hundred pounds and slid into the driver’s seat with that quiet sort of stiffness that only meant one thing: she was hurting. She smelled different now. Not like the warm cinnamon and snow she usually did. No. Now, she smelled like firewood that burned too long. Bitter. Sharp. Grief and something else I didn’t like. It clung to her skin even when she rolled down the windows and let the mountain air in. Like she was trying to breathe something that didn’t hurt. I jumped into the seat beside her, turned in a tight circle, and then sat with my back pressed against her thigh. She didn’t look at me or scratch behind my ears like she normally did when we got in the car. She just sat there with her hands on the wheel, kn

The snow fell softly outside my window, a hush settling over the house. My backpack sat half-zipped on the floor, with my notebook, charger, scarf, and a change of clothes ready to go. I hadn’t left yet, but one question lingered in my mind. I reopened my laptop and clicked into the ZIP folders from my old contacts—files I hadn’t fully examined before calling my mother. I glanced past the registration papers for Red Cedar Developments and paused at a zoning map labeled “Historical Easement: Review Pending.” The name next to the parcel ID stopped me cold. Four Pines Reserve. The air left my lungs in one breathless rush. I clicked furiously, pulling up cross-referenced county records and scanning contracts. Land titles. Anonymous ownership transfers. Quiet campaign donations in exchange for silence. It was all there—buried just enough to stay overlooked unless you knew where to dig. But I knew Four Pines. It wasn’t just a forest. It was home. The place where my father had taken me