Credence

I pull off my wireless headphones and let them rest around my neck as I take a look around the room. Their baggage claim area only has two carousels. It’s like a bathroom at LAX.

Is he here? I spin around, trying to recognize someone I’ve never met, but he’ll probably know me before I know him anyway. Our family’s pictures are hard to avoid online right now.

Following the crowd, I head to the second conveyor belt and wait for the luggage to be dropped. I probably brought way too much, especially since there’s a good chance I won’t stay long, but honestly, I wasn’t thinking. He emailed a ticket—told me I could use it or not—and I just grabbed my suitcases and started loading. I was too relieved to have something to do.

I check my phone to make sure I didn’t miss a call from him saying where to meet, and I see a text from Mirai, instead.

Just giving you a heads up… The coroner will confirm the cause of death by the end of the week. It will make the news. If you need to talk, I’m here. Always.

I inhale a deep breath, but I forget to let it go as I slip my phone in my back pocket. Cause of death. We know how they died. All the religious nutcases on Twitter are presently condemning my parents as sinners for taking their own lives, and I couldn’t look at it. While I could say whatever I wanted about my problems with Hannes and Amelia de Haas, I didn’t want to hear bullshit from strangers who didn’t know them.

I should turn off my phone. I should…

I pinch my eyebrows together. I should go home.

I don’t know this guy, and I don’t like the people I do know.

But last night, nothing sounded better than getting out of there.

The carousel starts to spin, snapping me out of my head, and I watch as the bags start appearing. One of my black suitcases moves toward me, and I reach down to grab it, but another hand suddenly appears, lifting it for me, instead. I shoot up, coming face to face with a man.

Well, not face to face exactly. He stares down at me, and I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t remember…anything. His eyes are almost frozen, and he doesn’t blink as we stand there, locked.

Is this him?

I know my father’s step-brother is of Dutch descent, same as my dad, and this guy’s certainly got the whole six-foot-two, athletic look with short-cropped, dark blond hair and blue eyes whose slight amusement betrays his stern set jaw and intimidating presence.

“You’re Jake?” I ask.

“Hi.”

Hi? His gaze doesn’t leave me, and for a moment I can’t pull away, either. I knew he and my father weren’t blood, but for some reason, I thought they’d look similar. I don’t know why.

My expectation was completely off, though, and it didn’t occur to me that there was an age difference between them. Jake has to be at least ten years younger than Hannes. Late thirties, maybe early forties?

Perhaps that had something to do with them not getting along. In two totally differently places, so not much in common growing up?

We stand there for a moment, and I feel like this is the point where most people would hug or something, but I take a step back—and away from him—just in case.

He doesn’t come in for an embrace, though. Instead, his eyes flash to the side, and he gestures. “This one, too?”

His voice is deep but soft, like he’s a little bit scared of me but not scared of anything else. My heart speeds up.

What did he ask me?

Oh, the luggage.

I look over my shoulder, seeing my other black case trailing this way.

I nod once, waiting for it to come down the line to us.

“How did you know it was me?” I asked him, remembering how he just grabbed my suitcase without a word to confirm my identity.

But he laughs to himself.

I close my eyes for a moment, remembering he’s probably seen pictures of me somewhere, so it wasn’t hard to figure out. “Right,” I murmur.

“Excuse me,” he says, reaching past me to grab the second case. I stumble back a step, his body brushing into mine.

He pulls it off the belt and adds, “And you’re the only one here with Louis Vuitton luggage, so…”

I shoot him a look, noticing the jeans with dirt-stained knees and the seven-dollar gray T-shirt he wears. “You know Louis?” I ask.

“More than I care to,” he replies and then fixes me with a look. “I grew up in that life, too, remember?”

That life. He says it as if labels and luxury negate any substance. People may live different realities, but the truth is always the same.

I clear my throat, reaching out for one of the cases. “I can take something.”

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “We’re good.”

I carry my pack on my back and hold the handle of my carry-on, while he grips my two rolling suitcases.

I’m ready to move, but he’s looking down at me, something timid but also amazed in his eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“No, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You just look like your mother.”

I drop my eyes. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and it’s a compliment, to be sure. My mother was beautiful. Charismatic, statuesque…

It just never makes me feel good, though. As if everyone sees her first.

Gray eyes, blonde hair, although mine is the natural sandy shade while hers was colored to look more golden.

My darker eyebrows are my own, though. A small source of pride. I like how they make my eyes pop.

He inhales a deep breath. “Any more?” he asks, and I assume he’s talking about my luggage.

I shake my head.

“Okay, let’s hit the road.”

He leads the way toward the exit, and I follow closely behind, as we maneuver our way through the sparse crowd and outside.

As soon as we step into the sun, I inhale the thick late-August air, smelling the blacktop and the trees lining the parking lot beyond. The breeze tickles the hair on my arms, and even though the sky is cloudless and everything is green, I feel tempted to unwrap the jacket tied around my waist and put it on. We cross the walkway, barely needing to look for cars, because traffic is worse in line for the valet at my parents’ country club on a Sunday afternoon. I like it. No horns or woofers shaking the pavement.

He stops behind a black truck, but instead of popping down the tailgate, he just hauls my suitcase over the side and into the bed. Reaching back, he takes my other case and does the same.

I pick up my carry-on to help, but he quickly grabs that one, too, the tight cords in his arm flexing and shining in the sun.

“I should’ve traveled lighter,” I think out loud.

He turns. “It’s not just a visit.”

Yeah, maybe. I’m still not sure, but I thought it was best to bring enough for the long haul if I decided to stay.

We climb into the truck, and I put my seatbelt on as he starts the engine. On reflex, I reach for my headphones around my neck. But I stop. It would be rude to tune him out, having just met him. My parents never took issue, but they asked me not to wear them around others.

I release the headphones and stare at the radio instead. Please let music be playing.

And as soon as the truck rumbles to life, the radio lights up, playing “Kryptonite” loudly, and for a second, I’m relieved. Small talk hurts.

He pulls out of the parking lot, and I clasp my hands on my lap, turning my head out the window.

“So, I checked into it,” he says over the radio. “We have an online high school that can take care of you.”

I turn my eyes on him.

He explains, “We have a lot of kids here who are needed on the ranches and such, so it’s pretty common to homeschool or complete classes online.”

Oh.

I relax a little. For a moment, I thought he expected me to attend school. I had prepared myself for living in a new place, but not getting accustomed to new teachers and classmates. I barely knew the ones I’d been with for the past three years.

Either way, he needn’t have bothered. I took care of it.

“I can stay at Brynmor,” I tell him, turning my eyes back out the window. “My school in Connecticut was happy to work with my…absence. My teachers have already emailed my syllabi, and I’ll be able to complete everything online.”

The highway starts to give way to the sporadic homes along the side of the road, some 80’s-style ranches with rusty chain-link fences, bungalows, and even a Craftsman, all hugged by the dark needles of the tall evergreens around their yards.

“Good,” Jake says. “That’s good. Let them know, though, that you can be offline for spells as the WiFi at my place is spotty and completely goes out during storms. They might want to send your assignments in bulk, so you don’t get behind during that downtime.”

I look over at him, seeing him glance away from the road to meet my eyes. I nod.

“But who knows…” he muses. “You might just be running for the hills after a week up at the cabin.”

Because…?

He cocks his head, joking, “No malls or caramel macchiatos close by.”

I turn my eyes back out my window, mumbling. “I don’t drink caramel macchiatos.”

It’s reasonable for him to anticipate that maybe I won’t feel comfortable with them or that I’ll miss my “life” back home, but suggesting I’m a prima donna who can’t live without a Starbucks is kind of dicky. I guess we can thank TV for the rest of the world thinking California girls are all valley twits in tube tops, but with droughts, wildfires, earthquakes, mudslides, and one-fifth of the nation’s serial killings happening on our turf, we’re tough, too.

We drive for a while, and thankfully, he doesn’t talk more. The town appears ahead, and I can make out carved wooden statues and a main street of square buildings all attached to each other on both sides. People loiter on the sidewalks, talking to each other, while potted flowers hang from the light posts, giving the place a quaint, cared-for vibe. Teenagers sit on their tailgates where they’re parked on the curb, and I take in the businesses—everything mom and pop and nothing chain.

I look up, seeing the large hanging banner right before we drive under it.

Chapel Peak Smokin’ Summerfest!

August 26-29

Chapel Peak…

“This isn’t Telluride,” I say, turning my eyes on him.

“I said it was outside of Telluride,” he corrects. “Wayyyy outside of Telluride.”

Even better, actually. Telluride was a famous ski destination—lots of shops and high-end fare. This will be different. I want different.

I watch the shops pass by. Grind House Café. Porter’s Post Office. The Cheery Cherry Ice Cream Shop. The…

I turn my head to take in the cute red and white pin-striped awning as we pass a small shop and almost smile. “A candy store…”

I used to love candy stores. I haven’t been inside one in years.

Rebel’s Pebbles, I read the sign. It sounds so wild west.

“Do you have your license?” he asks.

I turn my head back facing front and nod.

“Good.” He pauses, and I can feel him looking over at me. “Feel free to use any of the vehicles, just make sure I know where you’re going, okay?”

Any of the vehicles. Does he mean his and his sons’? Where are they, by the way?

Not that I expected them to be at the airport, too, but it kind of makes me nervous that they might not be excited about me coming if they weren’t there to greet me. Something else I’d failed to consider. They had a comfy, testosterone-infused man-cave, and here comes the girl they think they’ll have to guard their dirty jokes around now.

Of course, it’s Thursday. Maybe they’re just at work.

Which reminds me…

“What do you do?” I ask him.

He glances over at me. “My sons and I customize dirt bikes,” he tells me. “ATVs, dune buggies…”

“You have a shop here?”

“Huh?”

I clear my throat. “You have a… a shop here?” I say again, louder.

“No. We take orders, build them from our garage at home, and then ship off the finished product,” he explains, and I can’t help but take another look over at him. He fills up the driver’s seat, the sun-kissed muscles in his forearm tight as he holds the wheel.

So different from my father, who hated being outside and never went without a long-sleeved shirt, unless he was going to bed.

Jake meets my eyes. “We’ll be getting a lot of orders in soon,” he says. “It keeps us pretty busy throughout the winter, and then we send them off in the spring, just in time for the season to start.”

So they worked from home. The three of them.

They’ll be around all the time.

I absently rub my palms together as I stare ahead, hearing my pulse quicken in my ears.

Even at Brynmor my parents had arranged for me to have a single room with no roommate. I prefer being alone.

I wasn’t a hermit. I could talk to my teachers and have discussions, and I love seeing the world and doing things, but I need space to breathe. A quiet place of my own to decompress, and men are noisy. Especially young ones. We’ll all be on top of each other all the time if they work from home.

I close my eyes for a moment, suddenly regretting doing this. Why did I do this?

My classmates hated me, because they took my silence for snobbishness.

But it’s not that. I just need time. That’s all.

Unfortunately, not many are patient enough to give me a chance. These guys are going to see me as rude, just like the girls at school do. Why would I purposely put myself in a situation to be forced to get to know new people?

I clench my jaw and swallow, seeing him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring at me. How long has he been watching me?

I instantly force my face to relax and my breathing to slow, but before I can bury my face in my phone to cover up my near panic attack, he’s swerving the truck to the left and coming full circle, heading back in the direction we just came.

Great. He’s taking me back to the airport. I freaked him out already.

But as he speeds back down the main street, and I grip the seatbelt strap across my chest to steady myself, I watch as he passes back through two lights and jerks the wheel to the left, sliding into a parking spot on the side of the street.

My body lurches forward as he stops short, and before I have a chance to consider what’s going on, he kills the engine and hops out of the truck.

Huh…

“Come on,” he tells me, casting me a look before he slams the door closed.

I look out the front windshield and see Rebel’s Pebbles etched in gold on the black Victorian-style sign.

He brought us back to the candy shop.

Keeping my small travel purse hooked across my chest, I climb out of the truck and follow him up onto the sidewalk. He opens the door, the tinkle of a little bell ringing, and ushers me inside before he follows me.

The heady scent of chocolate and caramel hits me, and I immediately start salivating. I haven’t eaten since the handful of blueberries I forced down this morning before my flight.

“Yo, Spencer!” Jake shouts.

I hear the clutter of a pan from somewhere in the back, and something—like an oven door—falls closed.

“Jake Van der Bong!” a man strolls out from behind a glass wall, wiping his hands as he heads toward us. “How the hell are you?”

Van Der Bong? I dart my eyes up to Jake.

He grins down at me. “Ignore him,” he says. “I never smoked. I mean, I don’t smoke anymore. That’s old shit.” He smiles at the other guy. “The old me. The evil me.”

They both laugh and shake hands, and I gaze at the man who just came out. Looks about the same age as Jake, although a few inches shorter, and dressed in a red and blue flannel shirt with unkept brown hair.

“Spence, this is my niece, Tiernan,” Jake tells him.

Mr. Spencer turns his eyes on me, finishes wiping off his hand, and holds it out to me. “Niece, huh?” His gaze is curious. “Tiernan. That’s a pretty name. How are you?”

I nod once, taking his hand.

“Let her have whatever she wants,” Jake tells him.

“No, that’s okay.” I shake my head.

But Jake cocks an eyebrow, warning me, “If you don’t fill up a bag, he’ll fill it up for you, and it’ll be black licorice and peppermint sticks.”

I scrunch up my nose on reflex. The other man snorts. Black licorice can go to hell.

Jake walks off, grabbing a plastic bag, and proceeds to start filling it with taffy as I stand there, my pride keeping me planted in place. It’s always the heaviest chip on my shoulder. I don’t like giving people what they want.

But then I smell the sugar and the salt, and the warm chocolate scent from the stoves hits the back of my throat and goes straight to my head. I’d love a taste.

“Whatchya waitin’ for, de Haas?” I hear my uncle call out.

I blink.

He caps the taffy jar and moves to the gummy worms as he tosses a look over at me. I stare back. Calling me by my last name seems like it should feel playful. With him, it’s…brusque.

I let out a breath and move toward the bags, taking one for myself. “I’ll pay for it,” I inform him.

He doesn’t look at me. “Whatever you want.”

Opening the bag, I instinctively pass the chocolates and veer toward the less caloric gummy candies, loading in some peach rings, watermelon wedges, and blue sharks. I toss in some jelly beans and Sour Patch Kids, knowing I won’t eat any of this.

Absently drifting to the next cannister, I dig in the scoop and pull out a little pile of red.

Swedish Fish are filled with corn syrup, food dyes, and additives, my mother once said. I look down at the candy, once loving the way they felt between my teeth but hadn’t tasted since I was thirteen. Back when I started being willing to give up anything to make her value me. Maybe if I ate like her, wore my make-up like her, bought Prada and Chanel purses like her, and wore any garish monstrosity Versace designed, she’d…

But I shake my head, not finishing the thought. I load in two heaping scoops of the candy into my bag. Jake appears next to me, digging his hand right into the jar. “These are my favorite, too,” he says and pops two into his mouth.

“Yo, dirtbag!” I hear Spencer shout.

But Jake just laughs. I look back down, recapping the jar and twisting my bag shut.

“The bag is seven-ninety-five no matter what, so fill it up,” Jake tells me and moves around me, down the line of candy containers.

Seven ninety-five. Almost as expensive as the bottles of Swiss water my mother bathed in. How did he end up so different than them?

I trailed down the two aisles, passing the chocolate confection case and my mouth watering a little at how good I knew everything tasted.

“Ready?” Jake walks past me.

I follow him to the register, and I toss my bag on the counter, afraid he’ll try to go first and pay for me.

I immediately take out my money, and the man, Spencer, seems to understand, because he rings me up with no more than a moment’s hesitation.

I pay and back away, making room for Jake.

He rings Jake up but looks at me. “Staying up… on the peak long?” he asks, sounding hesitant all of a sudden.

The peak?

But Jake answers for me. “Yeah, possibly until next summer.”

The man’s eyes instantly flash to Jake, a look of apprehension crossing his face.

“Don’t worry.” Jake laughs, handing the guy cash. “We’ll protect her from the big, bad elements.”

“When have you ever been able to control Kaleb?” Spence shoots back, snatching the money from Jake.

Kaleb. One of his sons. I look at Jake, but he just meets my eyes and shakes his head, brushing it off.

Jake takes his change and his candy, and we start to leave.

“Thank you,” I tell Spencer.

He just nods and watches us as we leave, making me feel more unnerved than when I came in.

We climb back into the truck, and my uncle pulls out, heading back in the direction we were originally going.

The petals of the pink petunias flutter in the wind against the blue sky as they hang in their pots, and young men in sleeveless tees haul sacks of something off the loading dock of the feed store and into their pickup. I’ll bet everyone knows each other’s names here.

“It’s not Telluride,” Jake offers, “but it’s as big of a town as I ever want to see again.”

I agree. At least for a while.

We head past the last of the businesses, over some tracks, and start to wind up a paved road dense with evergreen trees, slowly climbing in elevation.

The highway narrows, and I look through the windshield, seeing the trees getting taller and cutting off more and more of the late afternoon light as we travel deeper, leaving the town behind. A few gravel and dirt roads sprout off the main lane, and I try to peer down the dark paths, but I can’t see anything. Do they lead to other properties? Homes?

We climb for a while, the engine whirring as Jake weaves and curves around every bend and I can no longer see anything of the town below. Rays of sun glimmer through the branches, and I blink my eyes against it, feeling the truck pull off the paved highway and onto a dirt road as I sway in my seat with the bumps.

I hold the dash with one hand, watching the lane ahead lined with firs. We climb for another twenty minutes.

“It’s quite a drive,” he tells me as the sky grows more dim, “so if you want to go to town, make sure me or one of my sons are with you, okay?”

I nod.

“I don’t want you to get caught on this road after dark by yourself,” he adds.

Yeah, me neither. He wasn’t kidding when he said ‘secluded’. You better have what you need, because it’s not a quick trip to the store if you need milk, sugar, or cough syrup.

He turns right and pulls up a steep gravel driveway, the rocks crunching under the tires as I start to see structures coming into view again. Lights shine through the trees, easy to see, since it’s just about dark.

“All of that road we just traveled gets buried in winter,” he informs me, and I see him looking over at me, “and with some terrain steep and icy, it makes it impossible to make it to town for months with the roads closed. We’ll take you to the candy store to load up before the snow starts.”

I ignore the joke and peer out the window, trying to see the buildings we’re approaching through the last remnants of sunlight, but with the trees everywhere, I can’t see much. Something that looks like a stable, a couple of sheds, a few other smaller structures buried in the thick, and then…

He pulls the truck up onto even land finally and parks right in front of a house with massive windows and a few lights on inside. I shoot my eyes left, right, up, and down, taking in the huge place, and even though I can’t make out any details in the dark, it’s big, and there’s three floors, as well as upper and lower sprawling decks.

A twinge of relief hits me. When he said cabin, I immediately registered “doomsday prepper with the barest essentials to survive,” thinking more of the solitude and space away from L.A., than the potential hovel I might’ve just agreed to live in. It wasn’t until I got here that I started worrying about my rash decision and what I had actually signed up for. I didn’t need the Internet, but I was hoping for at minimum, indoor plumbing.

And—I gaze at the house, still sitting as he climbs out of the truck—I think we’re in luck.

I only hesitate another moment before I open my door and slide out of the truck, taking my backpack with me. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe there wasn’t much to be nervous about. It’s quiet like I hoped, and I inhale the air, the fresh scent of water and rock sending chills down my arms. I love that smell. It reminds me of hiking Vernal Fall at Yosemite with my summer camp years ago.

He carries my two suitcases, and even though it’s a little chilly, I keep my pullover tied around my waist and follow him up the wooden steps. The front of the house is almost all windows on the bottom floor, so I can kind of see inside. The downstairs looks like one large great room with high ceilings, and even though there’s a lot of one color—brown wood, brown leather, brown antlers, and brown rugs—I make out some stone features, as well.

“Hello!” Jake calls out, entering the house and setting my suitcases down. “Noah!”

I follow him, gently shutting the door behind me.

Two dogs rush up, a brown lab and another one, scrawny with gray and black hair and glassy black eyes. Jake leans over, giving them both a good petting as he looks around the house.

“Anyone here?” he yells again.

I immediately look up, seeing a couple levels of rafters, although the ceiling drops to the left and also where the kitchen is to the right. There’s not a lot of walls down here as the living room, dining room, sitting room, and kitchen just all melt together, not leaving much privacy.

It’s spacious, though.

“Yeah, I’m here!” a man’s voice calls out.

A young guy walks out of the kitchen fisting two beer bottles and shakes his head at Jake. “Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ Shawnee got out again,” he says.

He strolls up to us, looking like he’s about to hand Jake one of the beers, but then he looks at me and stops.

His dark blond hair is slicked back under a backward baseball cap, and he doesn’t look much older than me, maybe twenty or twenty-one. His body, though… His strong arms are tanned dark under his green T-shirt, and he’s broad. His crystal clear blue eyes widen, and his mouth hooks in a half-smile.

“This is Noah,” Jake introduces us. “My youngest.”

It takes me a moment, but I raise my hand to shake his. Instead of taking it, though, he just puts one of the bottles in it and says, “Learn to like it. We drink a lot here.”

The sweat from the bottle coats my palm, and I shoot Jake a look. He takes it from me and looks to his son. “Your brother?”

“Still in,” Noah replies, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Right.”

In? I start to wonder what that means but shake it off, wiping my wet hand on my jeans, still feeling his eyes on me. Why is he staring?

I meet his eyes again, and he quirks a real smile. Should I say something? Or should he say something? I guess this is weird. We’re essentially cousins. Am I supposed to hug him or something? Is it rude not to?

Whatever.

“How long did you look for the horse before you gave up?” Jake asks him, a sigh that he won’t let out thickening his voice.

Noah smiles brightly and shrugs. “My logic is that if we don’t find her then she won’t ever run away again.”

Jake cocks an eyebrow as he glances down at me and explains, “We have a young mare who always seems to find some way out of her stall.” And then he eyes his son again as if this is a tired subject. “But horses are expensive, so she needs to be found.”

The kid holds up his beer and backs away. “Just came back for fuel.” And then he locks eyes with me as he walks toward the back of the house. “If you shower, save me some hot water,” he tells me.

I watch him walk past the large stone fireplace, down a long hallway, and eventually I hear a screen door slam shut somewhere at the back of the house. He’s going to find a horse tonight?

“It’s dark so I’ll show you around the property in the morning,” Jake says, walking off to the right, “but here’s the kitchen.”

He trails around the island in the large space, but I stay back.

“Of course, help yourself to anything,” he explains, meeting my eyes. “We’ll be making plenty of runs to town before the weather starts in the next couple of months, so we can stock the pantry with any food you like. We’ll be doing some canning, too.” He closes the fridge door I’m guessing his son left open and informs me, “We try to grow, catch, and kill as much of our own food as possible.”

It makes sense why I thought I saw a barn and a greenhouse among the other structures. With getting snowed in for such long periods of time, it’s smart to rely on grocery stores and the town as little as possible.

He gestures for me to follow him, and I join him as he opens a door off the side of the kitchen.

“If you need the washer and dryer, it’s out here in the shop,” he tells me, flipping on a light. He descends the few stairs, and I see another truck parked in the bright garage, this one red.

Jake picks up a wicker laundry basket off the cement floor and tosses it back onto the top of the dryer, but as I take a step, something catches my eye, and I stop at the top of the stairs. A buck hangs by its hind legs off to the right, a small pool of blood gathered around the drain the dead deer hangs over. His antlers hover a foot off the floor, swaying just slightly.

What the fu…? I hang my mouth open, gaping at it.

All of a sudden, Jake is standing next to me on the stairs. “Like I said… grow, catch, and kill.” He sounds amused by whatever he sees on my face. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

He’s gone before I have a chance to answer, and I back away from the garage, step into the house again, and close the door. I’m not a vegetarian, but it occurs to me I’ve never met my meat before it was meat.

I swallow a couple times to wet my dry mouth.

“Living room, bathroom, TV,” he points out as I follow him. “We don’t have cable, but we have lots of movies, and you can stream as long as the Internet holds out.”

I follow him around the great room, seeing rustic-looking leather sofas, a coffee table, and chairs. The fireplace is big enough to sit in, and the chimney stretches up through the rafters. Wood and leather everywhere. It smells like Home Depot in here with a tinge of burnt bacon.

“Do you want the WiFi?” Jake asks me.

The reminder that I can stay connected here makes me pause for a moment.

But if I refuse it, he’ll wonder why. “Sure,” I answer.

“It’s under Cobra Kai.”

I shoot a look up at him. Cute.

Searching the available networks, I find Cobra Kai is the only one that pops up.

“Password?”

He’s quiet for a moment and then says, “A man confronts you, he is the enemy. An enemy deserves…”

I stop myself before I can shake my head and type in “No Mercy.” It connects within seconds.

Jake comes to my side and glances down. When he sees I got the password correct, he nods, impressed. “You can stay.”

He stands close, and I draw in a breath and take a step away, looking around the room for what’s next. But he stays rooted in place, watching me, and something crosses his eyes that he doesn’t say. Like me, he’s probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here and what he’s going to do with me for a week, or a year, until I leave.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Tired.”

He nods to himself as if just remembering my parents died two days ago, and I’d traveled across four states today. “Of course.”

But I’m not thinking that at all. I just need to be alone now.

He picks up my suitcases, and I follow him upstairs, the bannister wrapping around the square landing at the top. I stop for a moment and turn in a circle, taking in the seven or eight doors around all sides, getting turned around easily in this new place.

“My room.” Jake points directly ahead of us to a deep brown wooden door and then in quick succession around the landing as we pass other rooms. “Bathroom, Noah’s room, and here’s yours.”

He drops my luggage at a door in the corner of the landing, the dim light from the wrought iron chandelier above barely making it possible to get the lay of the land up here, but I don’t care right now.

But then it occurs to me he only pointed out his, Noah’s, and my rooms.

“You have another…son,” I say to him. “Did I take his bedroom?”

There are more doors. I wasn’t infringing on their space, right?

But he just turns his head and jerks his chin off to the right. To the only door on the back wall. The only door between me and the bathroom.

“Kaleb’s room is on the third floor,” he explains. “It’s the only room up there, so no need for a tour. It’s got a great view, though. Lots of air and space. He likes space.” He sighs, his words weighted with frustration as he opens my bedroom door, both dogs rushing inside ahead of us. “Keep that in mind when you meet him and don’t take anything personally.”

I pause a moment, curious what he means, but people say the same thing about me. I glance at his door again, guessing there were stairs behind it, since Jake said his room is on the third floor. Is Kaleb up there? His brother said he was “in.”

Jake opens my door and carries my cases in, and I follow, hearing the click of a lamp and see the glow of the bulb suddenly filling the room.

My chest instantly warms, and I almost smile.

It’s nice.

Not that I expected much, but it’s cozy and uncluttered, and I even have my own fireplace. There are double doors across the room, a bed, a dresser, and a cushioned chair, everything done in woodsy colors leaving plenty of room to pace and spread out on the floor if I want to sit like I often do.

A yawn pulls at my mouth, and my eyes water a little.

“Towels are here,” Jake tells me from the hallway. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He steps back into the room, filling up the doorway, and I stand in the middle of the space.

“Is it okay?” he asks me.

I nod, murmuring, “It’s nice.”

I feel him watch me, and my muscles tighten. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

I glance up at him.

He quirks a smile. “We’ll change that.”

Good luck.

Jake grabs the door handle and starts to pull it closed.

“You hated my father.” I turn my eyes on him, stopping him. “Didn’t you?”

He straightens and stares at me.

“Won’t it be uncomfortable for you to have me here… Uncle Jake?”

If he hated my dad, won’t I remind him of him?

But his eyes on me turn piercing, and he says in an even tone, “I don’t see your father when I look at you, Tiernan.”

I still, not sure what that means or if it should make me feel better.

You look like your mother. He’d said at the airport that I looked like my mother. Did he see her when he looked at me, then? Was that what he meant?

His eyes darken, and I watch as he rubs his thumb across the inside of his hand before he balls it into a fist.

I’m rooted, my stomach falling a little.

“And you don’t have to call me uncle,” he says. “I’m not really anyway, right?”

But before I can answer, he clicks his tongue to call the dogs, they follow him out, and he pulls the door closed, leaving me alone.

I stand there, still, but the nerves under my skin fire. One phone call, a coach seat, and four states later, it finally occurs to me… I don’t know these people.