I lean back against the counter, rolling the tension out of my neck. It’s late—past closing—but the shop still carries the scent of ink, antiseptic, and the faint trace of aftershave from the guy I worked on earlier. Outside, the rain has settled into a mist, streetlights flickering against the slick pavement. Seattle never really sleeps, but the shop is quiet now, just Sanford and me at the worn wooden counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between us.

He’s here for one reason—to convince me to go back to Birchwood Springs. Not because my brothers need me. They don’t. But because there’s a lot happening in that tiny town in Vermont. The one I swore I’d never set foot in it again. I meant it, too. And yet, I couldn’t stay away. Therese Smith had a way of making me do things I swore I wouldn’t. I don’t know if stepmother is the right word for what she was to me, but she sure as hell acted like one—bossing me around, making sure I didn’t entirely fall off the rails. And I let her because the fuckers she actually birthed were too busy being assholes all over the world.

When she died, I told myself that was it. I was done. No more Birchwood Springs. No more family obligations.

However things changed when, Nysa, my best friend, got herself in trouble, and there I was again, making sure she didn’t get herself killed. Once I knew she was safe, I left. But Sanford isn’t letting this go.

“You need to go back.” He exhales, tipping his glass toward me.

I grunt. “I’m good here. In fact, I can head to New York if Seattle doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Bullshit.”

I don’t look at him. Instead, I focus on the way the whiskey catches the dim light, swirling in my glass like it holds some kind of answer. It doesn’t.

“I go back, and what?” I say finally. “Nothing’s changed. I just want them to sell the fucking Old Birchwood Timber company. I could use that money to actually do something with my life.”

Sanford scoffs. “Everything’s changed, kid. You just haven’t been paying attention.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “You talk like you’ve got a lifetime of wisdom when you’re, what? Six, seven years older than me?”

He doesn’t react, just takes a slow sip of whiskey, like he’s the picture of patience. He’s been on me about this since we left Birchwood Springs.

And yeah, I could handle whatever mess is brewing in town. What I don’t want is to deal with my brothers.