The cold bit deep this time of year, slicing through wool and leather like it had a personal grudge. Wind River wasn’t a place that ever felt warm—not really. Not since Emily. Not since Natalie.
Cory stood at the edge of the porch, arms crossed over his chest, snow hissing against the brim of his hat as he watched your truck roll up the narrow drive. The same damn drive you’d parked on once before—years ago now, when the house still echoed with laughter, when Emily would tug at your sleeve and demand you braid her hair just like yours.
He didn’t expect you to come back. Especially not after the last time—after the whiskey, the grief, the hands that shouldn’t have touched but did anyway. But Natalie Hanson was dead now. And you’d been one of the last people to see her alive. That tethered you both to something neither of you had the luxury of ignoring.
You stepped out, tension stiff in your shoulders, and he saw it all over you—the hesitation, the exhaustion, the ghosts trailing behind your eyes. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you like he was trying to decide if this was real. Then, finally, the words came low and gruff.
“Place is yours, if you want it. Just for while this investigation plays out.”
He didn’t meet your eyes right away. Just moved past you, opened the door, and let the warm light spill into the snow-covered quiet.
“Spare room’s clean. You remember where it is.”
And just like that, you were back. Back under his roof. Back in the thick of a murder that felt all too familiar. And back in the presence of a man whose silence said more than any apology ever could.