Page 10 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Kari rose and went to the shelf, touching the familiar pieces—each one marking a moment from her divided childhood.

The red jasper from when she failed her first math test. The amethyst from the weekend after her first school dance.

The obsidian from the day her parents told her they were separating.

“I thought these were just to calm me down,” Kari said, returning to her seat with the turquoise still in her palm.

“They were never just stones,” Ruth said. “They were a way to teach you to listen to your own knowing.” She took the kettle from the woodstove and poured fresh tea into two clay mugs. “Something your father never understood.”

Kari accepted the tea gratefully, its familiar pine scent triggering memories of countless evenings in this very room. “Do you remember teaching me to make yeast bread?” she asked, deliberately steering away from heavier topics.

Ruth’s face softened with the memory. “You were so small, your hands could barely reach the dough to knead it.”

“But you put that little stool by the table for me,” Kari said, the image vivid now. “The red one with stars painted on it.”

“Still have it,” Ruth said, nodding toward a corner where the stool sat, its paint faded but the stars still visible. “Your mother painted those stars. Said you needed something to reach for, even while standing on solid ground.”

The mention of her mother was gentle, connected to a happy memory rather than recent loss. Kari ran her thumb over the turquoise, feeling its cool smoothness.

“I haven’t made bread in years,” she admitted.

“Your hands remember,” Ruth said. “Come.”

Despite the late hour, Kari found herself following her grandmother to the small kitchen, where Ruth took flour and yeast from a cabinet.

They worked side by side in comfortable silence, measuring and mixing, their movements a familiar dance despite the years that had passed since they’d last done this together.

As Kari kneaded the dough, the physical rhythm of it eased something tight in her chest. Ruth hummed softly—an old melody Kari recognized from childhood, though she couldn’t recall the words.

“What’s that song?” she asked. “The one you’re humming.”

“A weaving song,” Ruth said. “My mother taught it to me, and her mother to her. It’s for when the pattern becomes difficult and the mind needs steadying.”

“I remember you singing it,” Kari said. “When I was little.”

Ruth nodded. “You were always watching, even then. Seeing everything, asking why.” A smile touched her lips. “Your father said you’d make a good scientist. I said you’d make a good listener. We were both right, I think.”

They set the dough aside to rise, knowing it would be ready by morning. Ruth wiped flour from her hands and touched Kari’s cheek in a rare gesture of affection.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” she said. “But your own way of seeing.”

It was as close to approval as Ruth offered. They returned to the main room, the practical activity having created a temporary bridge across their different worlds.

“Well,” Kari said, “I should go. It’s late, and tomorrow will be another long day.”

Ruth nodded. “Sleep in your mother’s house tonight. Listen to what it tells you.”

“Houses don’t talk, Shimásání,” Kari said with a small smile.

“Everything talks,” Ruth countered. “Not everything uses words.”

Kari leaned down to kiss her grandmother’s weathered cheek. “I’ll come by again soon.”

“You’ll come when the questions grow too heavy,” Ruth said, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. “Like tonight.”

There was truth in that, uncomfortable as it was. Kari had always turned to her grandmother when logical frameworks failed to provide answers. Perhaps that pattern hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought.

The drive back to her mother’s house seemed shorter, the desert night alive with shadows and movement at the edge of her headlights. Rabbits, coyotes, nightbirds—normal wildlife. Yet Ruth’s words echoed in her mind: Not all killers leave footprints.

Inside, the house felt different somehow—not empty as it had when she’d left, but expectant, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Kari dismissed the fancy as fatigue, making a quick cup of tea before heading to bed.

Sleep came reluctantly, her mind cycling through the day’s information. Harrington’s battered body. Natoni’s warnings. The strange ceremonial arrangement. Her mother’s research into old stories. The Walking Earth.

When dreams finally claimed her, they were vivid and unsettling.

She stood at Canyon de Chelly, the red stone walls stretching above her, the night sky wheeling overhead.

Her mother walked ahead of her on a narrow trail, glancing back occasionally but never speaking, leading her deeper into the canyon.

Toward Monster’s Hand, its five stone fingers reaching toward the stars.

Not all killers leave footprints. The words seemed to echo from the canyon walls, though no one had spoken them aloud.

Her mother stopped at the base of the formation, pointing to something Kari couldn’t quite make out—markings on the stone, perhaps, or something hidden in shadow. She tried to move closer, but her feet wouldn’t obey. Her mother’s lips moved, forming words Kari strained to hear.

Listen to what it tells you.

Kari woke with a start, her heart racing, the dream already fading like mist in sunlight. The digital clock beside her bed read 3:17 AM. The witching hour, as her mother used to call it—when the veil between worlds was thinnest.

She lay awake for a long time after that, listening to the silence of her mother’s house, wondering what truths it might tell her if only she knew how to hear them.