Miserably.
The two men who had broken in to her house had taken Sloane. If Callum hadn’t saved the day, Sloane wouldn’t be alive. Her baby wouldn’t be alive.
Joy sank onto the couch, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. She had spent a month trying to push the memories down, trying to pretend she wasn’t falling apart, but sitting here, staring at the proof of her own failure etched into the walls, she couldn’t deny it anymore.
The walls of the house seemed to press in. The weight of it all—the cracked plaster, the memory of her body slamming against it, the mess swallowing every inch of space—was too much.
Dirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn across the floor, half-empty mugs of tea growing mold on the coffee table. She couldn’t bring herself to clean any of it.
She stared at the casserole dish on the kitchen table, the one Mrs. Fuller had brought over after what the older woman insisted on calling “the incident.” The food inside had long since spoiled, but Joy couldn’t throw it out. Couldn’t bring herself to wash the dish and return it, because that would mean seeing people. Talking to them. Pretending she was fine.
She couldn’t stay here.
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as she stumbled toward the back door, tripping over an overturned box. The trash, the rotting flowers, the half-opened cards—all reminders of Oak Creek’s kindness, of the people who had tried to help.
The thought made something inside her snap.
Joy shoved through the back door, the cold night air hitting her like a slap. But she almost enjoyed it.
Outside, the weight on her chest loosened just enough for her to drag in a full breath. She kept walking, barefoot, shivering, but free, toward the small structure at the edge of the yard.
Her playhouse.
The grass was stiff, brittle, like tiny knives against her skin. By the time she reached the playhouse, her feet were numb, but she didn’t care.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, her pulse still hammering but slowing, finally slowing. This was the only place she seemed to find any peace.
A child-sized reading chair sat against the far wall, its once-bright fabric faded and threadbare. A cot—small, but sturdy—was pushed against the opposite corner, its blankets rumpled from all the nights she had already spent here.
The walls…
She let her gaze trace over them, and for the first time in hours, the panic receded just a little.
Rainbows. Flowers. Tiny animals.
Her father’s uneven brushstrokes mixed with her own clumsy, childish ones. She had been ten when they painted them, standing on an old crate, giggling every time her dad added some ridiculous flourish—a too-tall giraffe, a bunny with an eye patch, a squirrel that somehow looked more like a potato.
“What kind of squirrel is that supposed to be?” she’d asked, already laughing.
“A potato squirrel,” her dad had replied without missing a beat. “Very rare. Only found in the backyards of little girls named Joy.”
It had been the best day. One of her favorites. She wished her parents were still here now, but they’d died in a car accident a year ago.
She’d certainly had her differences with her parents, neither her mother nor father able to figure out where her zest for life and endless energy had come from, because it certainly hadn’t seemed to be from their genes. But they had loved her. Would’ve done whatever they could to help her through this.
Not that it probably would’ve made much difference.
Her throat ached as she ran her fingers along the faded paint. It was ridiculous that she felt safer here, in a glorified shed, than in her own house.
No electricity. No heat. She could see her breath in the air, a wispy cloud that dissipated almost as quickly as it formed.
But she could breathe.
She dragged the small reading chair across the floor, the wooden legs scraping against the old planks. She wedged it firmly against the door—her nightly ritual, her makeshift security system.
Only then did she allow herself to climb into the cot, tucking the blankets tight around her, like armor, like protection. Three blankets, all of them too thin for the Wyoming cold. But she’d rather freeze out here than suffocate in the house.
She let out a slow breath and tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling.
