This Would Be Paradise (Book 3)

The lingering scent of pine cleaner and stale coffee hung heavy in the cul-de-sac, a grim perfume for the constant tension that vibrated through Hargrove. Roy, a man whose enthusiasm was usually a welcome distraction, was now a persistent, buzzing fly. He paced before me, chomping at the bit.

"Bailey, it's been weeks," he pleaded, his voice a low thrum of impatience. "I think one scouting mission couldn't hurt."

I gritted my teeth, a familiar ache settling in my jaw. My offer to help him find the mercenary's hideout felt like a lifetime ago, a naive promise made before the full weight of Hargrove’s new reality had settled. John, always the reluctant hero, was probably regretting his own commitment just as much. Life in Hargrove was meant to be settling, but the ghosts of Darren's murder, Byron's exile, and Wyatt's quiet demotion still haunted the air.

"Fine, Roy. By all means, grab a vehicle and go." I waved a hand dismissively towards the main gate, hoping to usher him away like a bothersome thought. People bustled around us, a symphony of survival – the rhythmic thud of a hammer, the distant murmur of conversation, the creak of supply carts. For most, the routine continued, regardless of who was in charge. But for me, the quiet hum of the settlement felt like a shroud.

Roy opened his mouth, a protest forming, then clamped it shut. He muttered something about finding John and stomped off. A sigh of relief escaped me, thin and fragile. John’s problem now. I turned, heading towards the armory, towards Darren’s old duties, towards the inventory that needed counting, towards the denial I still clung to like a lifeline.