The small, pulsing blue rock felt impossibly cold in Junia’s hand, even through the thin cotton of her work glove. Toby still knelt in the peat, pointing, a smudge of dirt on his nose. Hollis, meanwhile, merely peered at it, a faint frown etching lines between his brows. He’d picked up the crowbar again, but his gaze kept returning to the stone, a curious intensity in his eyes that Junia found unsettling. He wasn’t a man given to overt interest. “It’s just a weird rock, Toby,” Junia said, shaking her head. “Probably fell off some logging truck. Or maybe it’s a piece of that old shipwreck they talk about, glowing from salt water.” She tossed it dismissively onto a pile of splintered lumber near the half-finished shack foundation. Her version of a 'safe place' for strange, glowing objects. “Now, go wash those hands. You look like you dug a grave.” Toby giggled, scampering off towards the rain barrel. Hollis watched him go, then turned back to Junia. “A shipwreck wouldn’t give off light.” His voice was low, thoughtful. “And that’s not marine rock. It looks like it’s been buried deep.” Junia scoffed. “It’s a barren cliff, Hollis. Barren. That’s why it was so cheap. Nothing grows here, nothing’s buried here. Except maybe my hopes and dreams of a quiet life, if you keep bringing up mysteries.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Anyway, we’re out of coffee. And condensed milk. And more importantly, my emergency stash of sour cream and onion chips. Toby needs actual food. I need chips. So, off to Oakhaven General.” Hollis’s eyes lingered on the discarded rock before he nodded. “I’ll come along. Heavy bags.” “Don’t you dare carry anything for me. I’m perfectly capable,” Junia retorted, already striding towards the rusty pickup truck she’d bought with the last of her savings. Hollis merely leaned against the shack, watching her with that unnervingly calm expression until she was ready. She hated it when he did that; it felt like he knew something she didn’t, or worse, that he was silently judging her feigned independence. The drive into Oakhaven was a short, bumpy affair down a rutted dirt road. The settlement seemed to buckle beneath its own decline, the timber mill’s stacks belching thinner soot these days, storefronts peeling under coastal damp. The general store was one of the few counters still busy, mostly due to Mrs. Finch’s relentless gossiping and the proprietor's surprisingly good stock of canned peaches. Junia pushed open the creaky door, the bell above jingling a cheerful counterpoint to her sour mood. Toby clutched her hand, his eyes wide as he took in the familiar, comforting clutter of the small-town store. The shopkeeper, a man whose round face wore perpetual shock, stood behind the counter polishing a jar of pickled eggs with an oily rag. “Well, look who it is,” he said, his smile flat and stiff. “Junia Hesketh. Or… whatever you’re calling yourself these days.” Junia bristled. “It’s just Junia. And Toby. Same as always. Just here for provisions.” She tried to keep her voice light, but the familiar prickle of defensiveness was already starting. She could feel the stares of a few other patrons, their murmurs soft, like rustling dry leaves. The grocer leaned forward, dropping his voice, though not far enough. “I’m afraid, Junia, that we can’t serve you today. Or any day, for that matter. House policy, you understand. Local businesses have to stick together.” He gestured vaguely towards the back, where his wife’s sister worked for Marnie’s timber outfit. Junia’s temper, usually a roaring inferno, surprised even her by taking a detour into icy calm. She felt a slow, simmering heat spread through her veins, a warning of the explosion to come. But instead of screaming, she simply detached Toby from her side, gave him a gentle push towards the candy aisle – “Just look, don’t touch, sweet pea” – and walked over to the stack of brightly colored lawn chairs by the seasonal display. She unfolded a vibrant orange one with a flourish, the plastic creaking loudly, and settled herself right in the middle of the produce aisle, crossing her legs with an exaggerated sigh. “Is that so?” she said, her voice carrying clear across the quiet room. “’House policy,’ you say? Well, I've got a policy too. Like choosing whether or not to loudly recount certain… indiscretions… that tend to get whispered about when the church social rolls around.” The shopkeeper's cheeks turned a mottled crimson. His gaze darted around, suddenly noticing the handful of shoppers who had stopped their browsing to listen. Mrs. Finch, always the first to a scandal, had already abandoned her canned goods to hover by the bread rack, pretending to examine a loaf. “Now, Junia, there’s no need for that,” he stammered, staring at her in panic. Junia merely smiled, a sweet, saccharine smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “No need for what, Arthur? For remembering that time your delivery van ‘broke down’ for three hours on the old Merrow Creek Road, only to be seen speeding away from the old Widow Plympton’s cottage just as her husband, God rest his soul, was coming home from the mill? Or perhaps the time you ‘miscounted’ the church bake sale donations, and a certain young Sunday school teacher suddenly had enough cash for dental work?” The silence in the store was so profound, Junia could practically hear the collective gasp. Mrs. Finch gaped so hard her teeth showed. The shopkeeper looked ready to collapse. He gripped the edge of the wood counter until his knuckles went chalky. “Or,” Junia continued, voice sweet, “we could talk about the arrangement you made last summer, to ‘help out’ young Mrs. Abernathy with her… well, her ‘gardening.’ A lot of weeding, I hear. Late at night. When Mr. Abernathy was out fishing.” “Alright! Alright, that’s enough!” he choked out, voice cracking. He looked utterly defeated, his gaze falling to his scuffed shoes. “Fine. You want your groceries? Take ‘em. Just… just please. No more. For the love of all that’s holy, no more.” Junia beamed, utterly triumphant. “Excellent! Now, that’s a ruling I can get behind.” She folded the orange lawn chair and set it back on the stack. “Toby! Let’s get our chips!” Minutes later, Junia emerged from the store, a heavy bag of groceries slung over one shoulder, Toby skipping beside her with a small bag of peppermint sticks. She felt a surge of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. This was her kind of fight: lazy, efficient, and devastatingly effective. Let Marnie try to starve her out; Junia had a decade’s worth of Oakhaven gossip stored in her brain. She took a deep, bracing breath of the salt-laced air, already planning her afternoon nap. Just as she stepped off the curb, a deafening roar erupted, making the ground vibrate beneath her feet. A massive logging truck, black with mud and moving at an impossible speed, came hurtling around the corner, its engine screaming. It was a blur of chrome and dark green, bearing down on her with terrifying speed. Junia froze, stiff and paralyzed, the paper bag tearing as it slipped from her fingers. Before she could even register the danger, a strong arm clamped around her waist, yanking her back with brutal force. She stumbled, falling hard against a solid, unyielding chest. The truck thundered past, a blast of wind and exhaust fumes washing over them, rattling the windows of the general store. Junia’s face was pressed against Hollis’s rough work shirt, the frantic thrum of his heart beating a wild, furious rhythm against her own. His arm remained tight around her, holding her so close she could feel the sharp intake of his breath, the tremor in his muscles. The dust settled slowly, coating the gravel in grit. Junia shoved away from his coat, breathless. “What in the— Hollis! You nearly cracked my ribs!” Hollis didn’t respond, his eyes narrowed, following the truck as it sped away, disappearing down the road towards the old timber mill. His grip on her arm loosened, but he didn’t fully release her. Junia finally looked at the truck, a fading speck on the horizon. Even from this distance, she could make out the distinct, silver emblem emblazoned on its side: a snarling timber wolf head, framed by crossed axes. The Chisholm family crest. Marnie’s crest. A cold dread settled in her stomach, pushing aside the last vestiges of her triumph. The logging venture. Marnie’s new ambition. And that truck wasn’t headed for the old growth forest. It was headed straight for Shiver Cliff. Her cliff. Her barren, worthless, napping-friendly Shiver Cliff.

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