The first thing Holly noticed was the silence.
Not the absence of sound—Hale’s Crest was never truly quiet—but the way the packhouse felt… held. As if the walls themselves were listening. She sat up slowly in the unfamiliar bed, sheets warm, the scent of pine and woodsmoke clinging to everything. For a brief, fragile moment, she let herself believe she had slept peacefully.
Then she reached for her scarf.
Her fingers brushed bare mattress.
Holly frowned, pushing aside the blanket. She knew she’d left it there. Folded carefully at the foot of the bed, the soft wool still faintly smelling like her grandmother’s cedar chest. It was an old habit—placing important things where she could see them when she woke.
Her stomach tightened.
She scanned the room. Chair. Dresser. The small table by
