Where The Blacktop Ends

Chapter Four

She couldn't sleep.

The bed was comfortable enough, the room quiet, but every time Ivy closed her eyes, she saw Preston's face. Heard his voice. Felt his hands on her arms, bruising, possessive.

You're mine, Ivy. You'll always be mine.

At midnight, she gave up and went downstairs, thinking maybe a glass of water would help. The house was dark and silent, everyone else asleep. She moved carefully, trying not to make the floorboards creak.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, small and old-fashioned, with a porcelain sink and a gas stove that looked like it dated from the 1950s. Ivy filled a glass with water from the tap and stood at the window, looking out at the backyard.

And froze.

There was someone standing at the edge of the tree line.

A man. Tall—very tall, maybe six-three or six-four—and broad-shouldered, built like someone who did hard physical labor for a living. He was just standing there, perfectly still, looking toward the house. Looking toward her window.

Ivy's heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't see his face in the darkness, couldn't make out any details except his size and the way he stood—utterly motionless, like a predator waiting for prey to move.

She should call someone. Should wake Darlene. Should do something.

But she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only stand there with her glass of water and watch as the man turned—slowly, deliberately—and walked back into the forest, disappearing between the trees like he'd never been there at all.

Ivy stood at the window for a long time after he was gone, her heart still racing, her hands shaking so badly she had to set down the glass before she dropped it.

She didn't sleep at all that night.

Morning came too early, announced by roosters crowing and the smell of coffee drifting up from the kitchen. Ivy dragged herself downstairs, exhausted and jittery, to find Darlene already up and cooking breakfast—eggs and bacon and biscuits that smelled like heaven.

"You look like hell, honey," Darlene said, not unkindly. "Didn't sleep?"

"Not really." Ivy accepted the coffee Darlene poured her, wrapping her hands around the mug like it might anchor her to reality. "I saw someone last night. Outside. In the backyard."

Darlene's expression didn't change. "What'd he look like?"

"Tall. Very tall. Broad. I couldn't see his face."

"What time?"

"Around midnight."

Darlene nodded slowly, like this confirmed something she'd already suspected. "That'd be one of the Grangers, then. They patrol the town at night sometimes. Making sure everything's secure."

"That's—" Ivy struggled to find words. "That's terrifying."

"That's protection." Darlene set a plate of food in front of her. "The Grangers keep this town safe. Keep the bad elements out. You might not like their methods, but you can't argue with the results. We don't have crime here. Don't have drugs. Don't have violence. Because everybody knows the Grangers are watching."

"But they're just—they're just people. They can't—"

"They can, and they do." Darlene's voice was firm. "And you'd best get used to it if you're planning on staying. This is how things work here. This is how they've always worked."

Ivy pushed her eggs around her plate, her appetite gone. "Everyone keeps talking about them like they're some kind of—of mafia."

"They're family. Old mountain family. And family takes care of its own." Darlene refilled Ivy's coffee. "You want my advice? Stop asking questions about the Grangers. Stop thinking about them. Just live your life, mind your business, and you'll be fine."

But Ivy couldn't stop thinking about them. Couldn't stop thinking about the man in the darkness, watching her window. Couldn't stop thinking about the warnings, the fear in people's voices when they said the name.

Granger.

After breakfast, she walked back to Earl's shop to check on her car. The morning was already hot, the air thick and heavy, and by the time she reached Main Street, her sundress was sticking to her back with sweat.

Earl was in one of the bays, working on a truck that looked like it had seen better days—better decades, really. He looked up when she approached, wiping his hands on his ever-present rag.

"Morning. I called the supplier in Knoxville. They got the parts, but they can't ship until tomorrow. So you're looking at four days, maybe five."

"That's fine." Ivy tried to sound like it was fine, like being stranded in this strange town for almost a week was perfectly acceptable. "I was thinking—that building. The old general store. Is it really for sale?"

Earl studied her. "You serious about that?"

"Maybe. I'd like to at least look at it."

"Well," He scratched his chin, "you talk to Darlene and have her show you the place. If you're serious about it, she'll get ahold of the kids that are sellin' it."

Twenty minutes later, Ivy was standing in front of the old building, wondering if she was insane for even considering it. But it had potential and it could be hers.

A place that belonged to her, that Preston couldn't touch, that her parents couldn't control.

A fresh start.

She was walking back to Darlene's, her mind spinning with plans and possibilities, when she heard it again—dogs barking. Closer this time. Much closer.

Ivy turned and saw them.

Three dogs—massive, dark-furred, with teeth bared and eyes that gleamed with intelligence and aggression. They were standing in the middle of Main Street, blocking her path, and they were staring directly at her.

Her heart stopped.

Behind the dogs, a man emerged from between two buildings.

The same man from last night. She was sure of it. Same height, same build, same way of moving—slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and knew it.

He was younger than she'd expected—maybe thirty, maybe a little older. His face was hard and scarred, with a long mark running from his temple to his jaw that looked like it had been made by a knife. His arms were covered in tattoos—intricate designs she couldn't make out from this distance. His hair was dark and pulled back, and his eyes—

His eyes were the coldest thing Ivy had ever seen.

He didn't say anything. Didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge her beyond a long, assessing look that made her feel like prey being evaluated by a predator.

Then he made a soft sound—barely more than a breath—and the dogs immediately sat, their aggression vanishing like it had never been.

The man looked at Ivy one more time, his expression unreadable, and then he turned and walked away, the dogs following at his heels like shadows.

Ivy stood frozen in the middle of Main Street, her heart hammering, her hands shaking, her breath coming in short gasps.

She'd just met one of the Grangers.

And she understood, finally, why everyone was so afraid.

Because that man—whoever he was—wasn't just dangerous.

He was lethal.

And he'd looked at her like he already knew that she was prey that had no chance of escaping.