January ended with brittle winds and a whisper of frost. February tiptoed in, gentler, the edge of winter blunted. The mornings in Rockchapel were no longer bone-chilling but still cold enough to warrant a second layer. The sun lingered a little longer in the sky, teasing the promise of spring—but not quite yet. Everything was still quiet. Still waiting.
Joanne sat on the porch of the McDonald farmhouse, her breath fogging in the late afternoon air, a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders. The earth around her was still asleep—fields brittle and brown, bare branches shivering against the horizon.
In her hand was the other phone. The one Jeffrey had tucked into her suitcase like a secret. It had buzzed with near-clockwork precision ever since she left—every hour, every day. Short messages. Long rants. Casual updates. Strategic thoughts. Missives that looked like journal entries meant for her eyes only.
