He said, “Listen to me, Emma. I’m going to tell you something I never want you to need.”
I remember sitting on my bed, tears drying on my cheeks, the phone pressed tight to my ear.
He said, “If you ever get in trouble—real trouble—and you can’t trust the cops… you find Haven 7.”
I laughed through my sniffles. “Is that a church?”
He didn’t laugh back. “It’s men,” he said. “Good men. The kind who don’t look away. The kind who don’t quit.”
Then he sent me a pin. Coordinates. And he made me swear I’d never use it unless I had no other choice.
I swore. And then I forgot, because life moved on and my dad got sick and the world got louder and grief changes the way you remember things.
Until Mia started dating Mark Renshaw. And my gut screamed.
My sister’s texts got shorter and her smile got thinner and she started flinching when her phone lit up. And then, she went missing.
I remembered my father’s voice like it was a lifeline.
If you can’t trust the cops… you find Haven 7.
Mark is a cop. And Mia was in too deep. So I used the pin. And I didn’t tell anyone because if Mark really is tied into somethingbigger… then telling the wrong person the wrong detail could get Mia killed.
I reach the bottom road and spot a lone vehicle in the distance. A truck. My pulse spikes, and I freeze, scanning the tree line. But it keeps going. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. I let out a breath and keep moving. Down the mountain. Toward town.
Toward answers I probably won’t like.
Timber Creek issmall and quiet in that postcard way—strings of lights over storefronts, snow piled on sidewalks, a few people bundled up and moving slowly like winter gives you permission to take your time.
I walk like the opposite. My nerves buzz under my skin, every sound too loud, every passing car making my stomach twist.
I find a diner on the corner that looks like it’s been here forever—warm windows, a neon sign that flickers slightly, the smell of coffee slipping out every time the door opens.
I step inside and heat hits me like mercy. A bell jingles overhead. The diner is half-full—locals in flannels, a couple teenagers sharing fries, an older man reading the paper like it’s 1997. The air smells like bacon grease and cinnamon and comfort.
A waitress spots me immediately. She’s kind, with amber-colored hair in a bun and a smile that looks practiced but not fake. Her name tag says GRETA in bold letters.
Honey-colored eyes take me in—my snow-damp coat, my messy hair, my face that probably screamsI have made questionable choices.
“Sweetheart,” she says, voice gentle. “You look like you’ve had a day.”
I swallow, throat tight. “You have no idea.”
She nods like she does, though. Like she’s seen every kind of trouble walk through this door. “Sit anywhere,” she says. “I’ll bring coffee.”
I slide into a booth near the window, back to the wall without thinking. Old habit. Safety habit. Trauma habit.
The coffee arrives fast. Black, steaming. Greta sets it down and studies me for a beat. “You waiting on someone?” she asks.
I hesitate, then shake my head. “No.”
“That a lie?” she asks, not accusing. Just… seeing.
My chest aches. I stare down at the coffee. “I don’t know.”
Greta’s expression softens. “Mm. That kind of trouble.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Is there another kind?”