Haven Whitmore's Arc

Chapter 6 of 13

Haven's father unpacked slowly in the spare room, folding shirts onto a chair. Haven watched him from the doorway, then stepped back into the yard to breathe. That's when she saw Kaida crouched at the far fence, sleeves dirty, a small white terrier sniffing the dirt beside her. Kaida looked up. "You need to come see this. Now." The hole was shallow but deliberate. The terrier had started it, scratching at loose soil near the old oak. Kaida had finished it. At the bottom sat a sleek black picture frame, glass cracked, the photo inside still bright — a red-haired family, two parents and two children, all green eyes, all smiling. Haven had never seen them before. No one at the sanctuary had red hair. "It wasn't here yesterday," Kaida said. "I walked this fence yesterday." She brushed dirt from the frame's edge. "Someone buried it last night. Shallow. They wanted it found." Haven's stomach turned. She thought of the lantern still sitting on her shelf. She thought of the women who had named her father. A buried photo of a family she didn't know felt like a message she couldn't read yet. "A warning," she said quietly. Kaida nodded once. "Or a claim. Someone's marking your ground." Haven took the frame in both hands. The glass bit her thumb. She did not flinch. "I'm not hiding this one," she said. "Not from my dad. Not from anyone." Kaida studied her, then almost smiled. "Good. Then we start asking who they are before they come asking for you." Haven carried the frame inside and set it on the long kitchen table, face up, where her father would see it the moment he sat down. The terrier followed her in and curled under a chair like it already lived there. The sanctuary had been breached, quietly, while she slept her five hours. But for the first time, Haven was not going to be the only one staring at the problem. She pulled out three chairs instead of two.