Jackson’s P.O.V.
The road into Fairview looked like something off a postcard someone’s grandma would buy in a gift shop. Winding curves through thick woods, the occasional faded barn, power lines that sagged just a little more than they should’ve. The kind of place where even time seemed to forget to check the clock.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t in any rush.
Mac turned the SUV off the main road and onto a quiet little street lined with maple trees and crooked mailboxes. The kind of street where kids probably still rode bikes barefoot and neighbors brought each other pies just because. It didn’t smell like exhaust and overpriced cologne out here. It smelled like dirt, pine, and a hint of someone’s laundry blowing in the wind.
“I think this is the place,” Mac muttered, easin
