1
FINN
“GUUUURL! I am so jealous!” Rowan’s voice burst through the doorway like a glitter bomb as I muscled my way into the back room, a hefty package balanced against my hip.
I dropped it onto the workbench with a satisfying thunk. “Oh yeah? Jealous of what—my breathtaking art ability? My farm-girl muscles? My massive brain? My overflowing bank account? My entrepreneurial ability?”
Rowan scoffed dramatically, “Brains? Please. You never even finished high school. Bank account? Girl, the same one that has three figures in the negative, nope. Muscle... maybe. Art ability, always. But I was talking about you going on vaycay and the gallery being closed for a whole week! The shop is going to be a ghost town without you! People only show up to the stained glass classes when you teach. When I’m in charge they look at me like I’m an unpaid intern who wandered in off the street. And you’re leaving me alone in the house all week? RUDE! What if a burglar breaks in?”
“Offer him a sandwich, Row. Stealing takes desperation. I’m sure he’ll be more grateful for the food.” I snorted, slicing into the box with my cutter. “And if that doesn’t work, use those karate moves. David seems impressed by them. Maybe criminals will think twice when they see the leg kick.”
Her groan was theatrical, but her grin gave her away. Meanwhile, I attacked the package like a kid tearing into Christmas morning. I always ordered a boatload of mystery glass from my supplier, partially because it was cheaper, mostly because the unpredictable patterns challenged me in all the right ways. I thrived on making chaos look intentional.
“Can I just go on vacation with you?” Rowan whined from her workstation.
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth as I pulled a stunning piece of black-and-white speckled glass from the box. It caught the sun like it was showing off. “It’s not a vacation, Ro. It’s more like... indentured servitude.”
Rowan tilted her head, shiny black strands sliding forward and catching the reflection from the red glass she’d been grinding. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“My dad needs help on the farm,” I said, carefully setting the glass onto the display rack so it wouldn’t chip. “He let it slip that he broke his back last month. He actually begged me not to come home.” My jaw tightened. “But... He’s interviewing full time farm hands, and so far it’s been hillbillies who show up drunk, or worse, sober but stupid. So while he’s desperate for someone reliable, I volunteered to carry hay bales, mend fences, and shovel horse crap.”
When I mentioned my hometown to her before, she romanticized it—hot farm boys, the rhythm of honest labor, a small-town love story blossoming in a field somewhere.
Yeah... no. Not in Harvin.
Harvin was crime-ridden and depressed, a place where hope took one look around and decided to pack its bags. The graduation rate was fifteen percent. The crime rate? Sixty-eight. Once upon a time, Harvin had been alive: a bustling steel-mill town with revenues big enough to put us on the map, and farms that supplied nearly half the state of Pennsylvania.
And then there were the Becks.
Henry Beck the Fourth, Harvin’s current police chief, was just the latest in a long line of Becks who treated the town like their personal inheritance. His family had built Harvin from the ground up. First farm. First steel mill. First everything. The whole place was named after the family patriarch, Harvin Beck, the first of the Becks to come over from Germany three hundred years ago.
Now his great-something-grandsons and their spouses occupied every position worth having: police chief, the only lawyer in town, doctors, bankers, shop owners, bar owners, city council members. If Harvin had a heartbeat, it pulsed because a Beck permitted it. Utilities, burials, births—the Becks had their fingerprints on all of it.
They were the law in town. And even now, with Harvin a literal dump after steel production got shipped overseas for cheaper labor, the Becks were still somehow the only wealthy people around. They lived in lush comfort while everyone else drowned themselves in alcohol and drugs, or stole to survive.
Plenty of people tried to leave Harvin.
Some even made it to the highway.
But I seemed to be the only one who actually escaped.
Maybe it’s because I’m the mayor’s daughter.
Maybe it’s because I promised to keep my mouth shut.
Or maybe it’s because nothing was left there worth holding onto.
Rowan always imagined the place shinier than it ever was. She’d never walked through the sagging barn with me at dawn, never breathed that heavy mix of manure and gasoline, never listened to the painful quiet that settled over the house after my mom left. She heard “small town” and pictured a romance with a rustic backdrop.
All I pictured was my dad’s face twisting when he tried to stand without wincing, and the memories I’d fought hard to bury.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice, “real dream vacation.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “Still sounds hotter than slicing your fingers open on glass all day.” Her grin stretched wickedly. “And all I’m hearing is you’ll be surrounded by hot, sweaty farm boys who know how to handle animals. You wild thang.” She did the little wiggle she reserved for her most ridiculous fantasies.
“Do you want me to fire you?” I smirked.
Rowan froze mid shimmy. “You wouldn’t!”
I gave her a look. “Row, you have a civil engineering degree... actually, a PhD in civil engineering, a master’s in chemical engineering, and three other engineering degrees. What the hell are you doing making less than minimum wage at my shop? Don’t you have student loans? A dream? Parents to impress? I can’t even afford to give you benefits! Maybe I should fire you!”
“Finn!” Rowan groaned, “Life isn’t about a paycheck! I like working with you!” She shoved her hair behind her ear, expression twisting. “You don’t understand. I’d choose this job with you over some soul-crushing engineering position any day. I only got all those degrees to prove to my parents I wasn’t the dumb, disposable middle child. I hate engineering! I barely survived my internship, I cried so many times I was basically a raisin!”
I snorted.
“Leave me be!” she went on. “I may be a crappy artist, but I’m great at cutting glass and selling it. You’re the artist. You make the pieces. You love teaching kids and grannies how to make masterpieces. And I know one day this business is going to blow up, and I’m going to be right here beside you when it does.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but the laptop on her table chimed.
“We got an order!” Rowan squealed.
“Where to?” I muttered, going elbow-deep in my box of mystery glass. I fished out a gorgeous sheet of carnival glass, holding it up to the light.
“4006 Riven Heights Drive... oop!” Rowan wheezed. “It’s in Harvin!”
I froze. Slowly, I turned toward her. “Quit lying. Ro. You’re such a jerk.”
“I’m not lying!” she cackled, spinning the screen toward me. “It’s going to a... Caffery Beck. Do you know him by any chance?”
The answer clawed up my throat before I could swallow it.
I knew that man too damn well.
Caffery lived down the road in what the townsfolk called Pill Hill—a mansion perched on the highest ridge in Harvin. His mother was the doctor notorious for overprescribing opioids. His father... Henry Beck, the police chief.
But Caffery... he—He was one of the reasons I fled Harvin. I wished I’d never met him. I wished our paths had never crossed. He ruined my life.
I stared at the laptop screen as a memory slammed into me like a sudden storm.
—
“Mrs. Craft’s class won’t be that bad, Finnley, I promise.” Mom’s voice, brisk and bright, just a little too forced. She reached across me to push open the passenger door, her smile stretched wide as if she could smooth over my nerves with enthusiasm alone. “Fifth grade is fun! I made a terrarium with a fish when I was in fifth grade!”
She all but shoved me out of the car. The September air hit my face, sharp with cut grass and bus exhaust.
“And don’t think I’m dropping you off tomorrow,” she warned, her tone snapping like a rubber band. “You’re taking the bus. You made me late.” The look she shot me before speeding off made it clear: no arguing.
The car roared away, leaving me standing there with my backpack digging into my shoulders, staring up at the hulking brick building.
The school loomed before me, clouded windows smeared with grime, some panes webbed with cracks or completely missing, stuffed with cardboard or duct tape. The sidewalks slanted and dipped as if the earth beneath had grown tired of holding them up. Tree roots had broken through the concrete, jutting out like knuckles, while weeds, tall and wild, sprouted through every crevice.
I felt the storm pressing behind the dilapidated structure, the same way it pressed in my own chest, chaos brewing, and no telling whether I’d find shelter or get torn apart.
“You got this, Finn,” I whispered, forcing my feet to move. The metal doors groaned as I shoved them open.
The hallway buzzed with noise, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking.
“Leee!” Abby’s voice cut through the chaos, high and sharp. She waved like I was a lifeline, hurrying over. “Did you get your morning snack before announcements? They’re about to close the cart, and you know you look like a total loser if you show up to homeroom without one. If not, I’m sure Bailey snagged one for you.”
I smirked and tugged a smooshed chocolate cake from my hoodie pocket. The wrapper crinkled as I held it up like a trophy. “Dad hooked me up this morning.”
“Lucky!” Abby groaned, linking her arm through mine as we fell into step.
“Lucky Lucy! Abs! Wait up!” A boys voice called down the hall after us.
“Bail! Go away! It’s my time to spend with Lee!” Abby chided before her voice dropped conspiratorial. “So... I was talking to Hunter. He said there was this new boy at his track meet this summer. It turns out it’s a boy down the road. He was homeschooled, but... his teacher went missing and now no one wants to take her spot so... he’s starting here today.” Her eyes glittered, fingers grazing the lockers as we walked. “His name is Caffery. Caffery Beck.”
I snorted. “You’re already taken.”
She smirked, “But you’re not.”
“She is!" The boy’s voice shouted, “She’s most definitely taken.”
I giggled as I shouted over my shoulder, “Someone hasn’t asked me out yet!”
“Did I hear that the Mayor Harna’s daughter is up for the taking?” A black-haired boy stepped into my path with a smirk so sure of itself it made my stomach clench.
“Caffery... She’s off limits.” A familiar growl rumbled behind me.
“Bailey Kennen…” Caffery drawled as he looked past me, lips curling. “Still aspire to work with my pops one day?”
Caffery paused, and I seized the moment.
“Bailey’s going to be chief one day, just you wait! He’s already in the Junior Squad!” I chirped, pride swelling in my chest at the thought of my crush turning this town around.
Caffery raised a brow, slow and deliberate, like he could already taste the power he’d one day wield. “You must be good at following orders then. We’ll put that to the test one day.”
At the time, I’d rolled my eyes. Maybe laughed. Maybe tried to pretend my skin didn’t crawl under the weight of his stare.
But... He hadn’t tested Bailey... He’d tested me.
Over and over.
Until there was no “test” left... only desperation to end the nightmare.
Caffery Beck was the reason I left Harvin.
The reason I left Bailey without a word.
The reason I hadn’t stepped foot home since I was seventeen.
The reason I’d lied through my teeth in a hospital room, feigning memory loss so convincingly that Chief Beck had no choice but to drop the line of questioning.
His voice stuck with me longer than it should have, echoing even now, years later, as I stood in the back room of my art shop.
4006 Riven Heights.
Caffery Beck’s house.
The thought alone sent a cold shiver through me, sharp enough to raise goosebumps across my arms. It felt like someone had opened a freezer door behind me. Before my brain could string together a single rational thought, my legs launched me forward. I sprinted toward the laptop, the piece of glass in my hands slipping free and crashing to the floor in a splintering cascade of color.
My fingers shook as I clicked open the order, the cursor skittering across the screen like it could sense my panic.
Rowan leaned in.
“He wants the whole mystery collection! That’s… that’s what? Fifty pieces? Sixty?” Her voice climbed an octave. “They’re four hundred and fifty dollars each! That’s… Finn… that’s twenty-seven thousand dollars.”
A bead of sweat slid down the back of my neck, slow and cold. My heartbeat slammed against my ribcage so hard it felt like it might leave bruises. That collection… it wasn’t for sale. Not ever.
“ROWAN!” I shrieked, spinning toward her. “What did you do?!”
She winced, “I listed them last night!” she blurted. “They’re so damn cool, Finn! They deserve a loving home! They deserve to be viewed, not shoved in a dusty box in the back room like glass prisoners! Besides, we need the money! You took out a loan last month just to keep this place running!”
I opened my mouth—then closed it. The panic was too thick. It clogged my throat, made my lungs burn.
I couldn’t explain the attachment to those pieces, not in words she would understand. That collection had been born during the first blindingly lonely weeks after I’d moved to Pittsburgh. I’d been unmoored, taking GED classes, working double shifts I hated, pretending I wasn’t terrified of the entire world. One of my teachers mentioned she was hosting a free stained-glass class at the community center.
I’d gone because… why not? It was free. I had nothing else. I expected nothing.
But the moment I held a shard of glass up to the light… I fell in love. Instantly, ferociously.
That same night, I sketched my first piece. The first seed of what would eventually become my collection.
I could still remember the scratch of the dull pencil, the weak overhead light flickering in my tiny Pittsburgh apartment, and the way the idea had hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath from my lungs. It wasn’t pretty inspiration. It wasn’t some artsy muse whispering in my ear. It was a memory that had lived under my skin for years—raw, ugly, and desperate to be acknowledged.
The sketch became a stunning stained-glass missing poster: an elderly man on his sagging porch swing, rifle balanced lazily across his lap, a half-crushed beer can pressed to his lips. His golden retriever sat vigilant at his feet, its eyes captured in amber glass that somehow held both loyalty and loss. Across the top, in bold lettering, was his name:
John Higglebrune.
Age 76.
Grey hair. Brown eyes.
Last seen the night of November 28th.
Please contact the sheriff’s office with any information.
I’d spent weeks perfecting it once I learned how to cut, foil, and solder. That piece wasn’t just glass—it was grief made tangible. John had been one of many in Harvin who’d slipped through the cracks, swallowed by the whispers of a town that liked to pretend its shadows didn’t exist. The townspeople forgot him. But I refused to.
That one piece opened a floodgate I didn’t know I’d been damming up. Each design after that became therapy—my hands piecing together truths the town buried. Newspaper clippings immortalized in colored panes. Court articles transformed into mosaic justice. Wanted posters, flyers for local events that had been canceled after tragedies, faces no one bothered printing anymore. Every shard told a story Harvin refused to speak aloud.
I called it my small town collection, but Rowan insisted on calling it my mystery collection.
“They’re little unsolved puzzles,” she’d gush. “Quiet ghosts. You made a whole stained-glass universe of forgotten things.”
Maybe she was right.
But they were mine. They were pieces of me.
“Cancel the order,” I grunted now, fury vibrating under every word.
Rowan’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “Finnley! You cannot be serious! It’s just glass! You can make more! This could help with our debt! We could actually put a decent meal on the table for once!”
“I. Said. Cancel it.” My jaw locked so tight it hurt.
She narrowed her eyes like she was preparing for battle. “Make me.”
We moved at the same time, two idiots launching ourselves for the laptop like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship. Our limbs tangled, the table wobbled dangerously, and the computer went sliding. We both grabbed for it, missed entirely, and crashed to the floor in a heap.
A pleasant little ding chimed.
“Noooooooo…” she whined, staring at the screen. “Why are you so fast when it comes to ruining my financial dreams?”
I grinned, victorious. “Do not sell my babies. They’re not for sale. Besides—what would we put up for Halloween decor every year?”
She shot me a withering look. “Halloween stuff, Finn! Pumpkins. Ghosts. Bats. Not—” she gestured dramatically, “—jailbirds and bones!”
“Sounds like Halloween to me.” I cackled, pushing myself to my feet and brushing glass dust off my knees. “Well… I’m off to Harvin. But if you sell anything you’re not supposed to, I swear I’ll kick you out of my house. You can go live with David like he’s been begging you to.”
Rowan groaned loudly. “I make you money, but you don’t want money. I’m convinced you want to be poor.”
“Well, farm girls aren’t rich. And once a farm girl, always a farm girl.” I stepped over the broken shards on the floor. “Clean that up. And don’t throw it out, I can still use it.”
“Ms. Frugality strikes again,” Rowan muttered playfully, giving me a dramatic little wave.
I waved back, already feeling that familiar weight settle in my chest as Harvin slipped into my mind like a familiar, unwelcome ghost.
