Chapter 2 — The Road Home

Clara

The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow across the winding country road, but Clara felt anything but comforted. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles pale against the worn leather. The uneven asphalt sent tremors through her compact car, each jolt unsettling her further. Outside, rolling fields stretched endlessly, their golden hues tinged with the encroaching shadows of dense woods at their edges. An occasional dilapidated barn stood as a silent sentinel of the town’s fading prosperity, its weathered beams leaning with the weight of time.

Clara’s chest tightened with each bend in the road. It was as though an unseen force—an invisible thread—was pulling her back, unraveling memories she wasn’t ready to face. Her palms were damp against the steering wheel, and she loosened her grip only to realize the tension in her shoulders refused to ease.

Eighteen years. Nearly eighteen years since she’d traveled this road, yet it felt like no time at all. The same oppressive trees leaned closer over the asphalt, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. The same curves threatened to throw her off a path she wasn’t even sure she wanted to follow. And now, with the miles behind her dwindling, the weight of her decision pressed heavier on her chest.

She passed a rusted industrial silo standing alone in an overgrown field, its faded lettering barely legible beneath creeping vines. A flicker of memory surfaced—her father mentioning the town’s once-thriving mill economy, now reduced to a ghost haunting the outskirts. The thought lingered, a sharp reminder of how much had withered since she left. Soon after, the trees thickened, pressing closer, until her headlights caught the edge of a sign.

“Welcome to Willow Creek: A Place to Call Home.”

The paint was chipped and curling, the letters cracked and weathered like peeling skin. Someone had scrawled graffiti in the corner, the faint outline of "Nothing Left" just visible beneath a half-hearted scrub. Clara’s foot instinctively eased off the gas, her gaze lingering on the sign too long. In her mind, she heard Vivian’s laughter—bright, carefree—as they pedaled past this very sign on their bikes so many years ago. The sound echoed briefly, then faded into silence, leaving behind only the ache of what once was.

Her chest tightened further. A flicker of heat rose to her neck, her pulse skipping uncomfortably as she gripped the wheel tighter. She forced herself to exhale slowly, but the sigh felt heavy in the stillness of the car. The radio had been off since she left the city—every time she reached for the dial, her hand faltered, unable to break the oppressive quiet that mirrored her thoughts.

Vivian’s face surfaced in her mind, unbidden. Not the woman Vivian had grown into, with her striking beauty and complicated nature, but the teenage girl Clara had shared everything with. Auburn hair wild in the summer breeze, hazel eyes daring the world to try and stop her. The two of them sprawled on the riverbank, their laughter mingling with the babble of the water. And later, that same face hardened with betrayal, those same hazel eyes cold and unyielding.

Clara shook her head sharply, as if to dislodge the memory, but its grip remained. The past clung to her like the dust she knew would coat her car by the time she arrived.

The trees began to thin, and the town emerged ahead, smaller than she remembered. Or maybe she had just grown larger in its absence. The main street was a patchwork of charm and decay—brick storefronts with sagging awnings lined up alongside shuttered buildings bearing the scars of time. The Wisteria Café sat at the center, its lavender-painted exterior stubbornly cheerful amidst the muted palette. Clara’s fingers twitched on the wheel as she passed, half-tempted to stop and disappear into the hum of strangers’ conversations. But she knew Maggie Harper would be inside, bustling about in her flour-dusted apron, and Maggie didn’t allow anonymity.

Turning onto the narrower road leading to the Marks family farmhouse, Clara caught a shadow of movement out of the corner of her eye—a flyer pinned to a telephone pole. Its edges curled in the wind, but she caught enough to make out the words “Detective Ethan Caldwell” beneath the bold “Community Meeting” header. Her stomach tightened, a faint flutter of something unnameable stirring in her chest. She hadn’t thought of him in years.

The car jolted sharply over a pothole, and Clara winced, her thoughts scattering. Her pulse quickened as the farmhouse came into view.

The old house sat at the end of the gravel drive, its white paint now more gray than anything else, peeling in long strips. The picket fence leaned drunkenly in several places, patches of it overtaken by twisting vines. The fields surrounding it were overgrown, tall grasses swaying lazily in the breeze. Time had not been kind to the place, yet it was unmistakably the same house she had spent countless afternoons in—laughing in the kitchen with Vivian, sneaking glances at Juliana when she thought no one was looking.

The sight was like a punch to the stomach, sharp and unrelenting. Clara parked and sat there for a long moment, staring through the windshield. Her heart thudded in her chest—too fast, too loud. She thought about turning the key in the ignition, backing out, and driving away. She could call Juliana and invent some excuse—a flat tire, a last-minute emergency. It would be so easy.

But Juliana’s voicemail echoed in her mind, brittle and sharp: “She’s missing, Clara. I don’t know who else to call.”

Clara exhaled slowly and opened the car door.

The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she approached the porch. The boards creaked under her weight, and the faint scent of lavender soap wafted through the air, cutting through the musty smell of overgrown grass and timeworn wood. It was so familiar it stopped her in her tracks. For a fleeting moment, she was sixteen again, sneaking into the house after curfew and giggling as Vivian shushed her. The memory passed as quickly as it had come, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.

She raised her hand and knocked three times, the sound tentative and hollow.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Juliana Marks.

Clara’s first thought was how much older Juliana looked. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was cropped shorter than she remembered, and the sharpness of her features had deepened. Her blue eyes, once piercing, now held a guarded coolness. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her posture rigid but not unwelcoming.

“Clara,” Juliana said, her voice clipped but not harsh.

Hearing her name on Juliana’s lips sent a ripple through Clara. She nodded, unsure what to say.

“Come in,” Juliana said after a moment, stepping aside.

Clara entered, the familiar scent of aged wood and lavender soap washing over her. It was strange how much the house smelled the same, even after all these years. The living room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The furniture was worn but meticulously clean, the kind of care that spoke to duty rather than pride.

“You can sit if you want,” Juliana said, gesturing toward the couch.

Clara perched on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Juliana remained standing, leaning against the doorframe, her arms still crossed. Clara noticed the slight tension in her fingers, the way they tightened briefly against the wood before relaxing again.

“You got here faster than I thought,” Juliana said finally.

Clara shrugged. “I left as soon as I could.”

“Good.” Juliana’s tone was brisk, but her gaze flickered with something softer—a brief, almost imperceptible crack in her armor.

Clara’s eyes wandered to the mantle above the fireplace. A photograph caught her attention: Juliana and Vivian as teenagers, their smiles wide and carefree. Vivian had her arm slung around her older sister’s shoulders, her birthmark just visible above the neckline of her shirt.

The sight made Clara’s throat tighten.

“Has there been any news?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

Juliana shook her head. “No. She’s been gone three weeks. The police have been useless—except for Ethan, I guess. He’s trying, but…” She trailed off, her jaw tightening.

“And… you’re sure she left the journal?”

“She didn’t just leave it. She hid it. Under a floorboard in her room. Like she knew someone might come looking for her.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

“Why did you call me?” Clara asked, the question spilling out before she could stop herself.

Juliana’s gaze sharpened. “You used to know her better than anyone. I hope you still do.”

Clara flinched, the words cutting deeper than she’d expected.

“Whatever happened between you two doesn’t matter right now,” Juliana continued, her tone softening just slightly. “I just want to find my sister. So if you’re here to help, fine. But if you’re not—”

“I’m here to help,” Clara said quickly, her voice steadier than she felt.

Juliana studied her for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Good.”

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor upstairs broke the tension. Juliana glanced toward the staircase, her expression softening just slightly.

“That’s Ethan,” she said. “He’s going through her room again, looking for… I don’t know. Something we might have missed.” Her tone held a grudging respect, but Clara caught the edge of skepticism.

Clara nodded, her mind swirling with questions. She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she agreed to come back, but the reality of it was already heavier than she had anticipated.

And yet, as she sat in the Marks family farmhouse, with Juliana’s guarded eyes on her and the weight of Vivian’s absence pressing down like a storm cloud, she felt the first stirrings of something else.

Resolve.

She had run from this place once before, but she wouldn’t run again.

Not this time.