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CHAPTER ONE

FREYA

BEFORE

“What’s the worst profanity there is?”

I’m newly eighteen, plus one month—too old not to know about this kind of thing, but nobody talks to me in a house of men who don’t notice me any more than they take note of the flies on the wall. That’s why I’m asking the one person I can trust with sensitive questions—my only good stepbrother, Bittern.

He’s sitting on the stoop, like always. There’s an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. His colorless hair falls in his russet eyes. I need to take the buzzer and give him a haircut soon.

“Why do you want to know that, Frey?” he drawls.

He talks real slow since the accident. I don’t know why that is. The doctor said there wasn’t anything wrong with him except a few broken ribs, and those healed a while back.

“I just do,” I say.

Bittern flicks his lighter absently, on then off again.

“Cunt, probably,” he says .

I’ve heard that around but only on the periphery of my understanding.

“What does it mean?” I squint up at him.

The sun filters around his head. Overhead, the far-reaching arms of the oak trees are dappled with late afternoon sun. Everyone is gone at work except for Bittern—he can’t work at the factory anymore. They won’t take him on account of his slowness around the machines.

“It’s like pussy,” he says. “You should know this by now.”

I frown. “Are you sure there’s not another? What about…cock? That’s bad. Or fuck?”

He shakes his head. “No, I reckon cunt is the worst one.”

“Why?”

It’s his turn to frown. “Hell if I know, Frey. It just is.”

He gets up, and the screen door flaps shut. It doesn’t latch. Instead, it just flaps on the hinges. Aiden, my stepfather, has slammed it too many times. I keep quiet on the porch for a while. The reason I wanted to know is because I’m becoming aware of an uncomfortable fact.

There appears to be a disadvantage to being a girl. Not the kind I understand, where Aiden rages on about how he didn’t want to be left with his dead wife’s daughter who’s not even his blood. Or where I get stuck at the back of the line. Or get the plate with the least food.

No, this is an awareness of the structure of everything.

The worst word Bittern knows is a name for a part of my body. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t.

I stare into the woods, to where the trees open and show the goldenrod clearing below, for a long time. Then, I get up, because I have to start dinner. Hungry stomachs wait for nothing, not even groundbreaking revelations.

It’s seven when the table is set. There’s breakfast for dinner—sausage, sweet boiled apples, gravy, biscuits. I lay everything out and go to the porch to see if I can hear Aiden’s truck.

They must have snuck in while I had the radio on. Ryland, my oldest living stepbrother, stands in the yard, talking on his phone. Walking around the side of the house, head down, is my stepfather, Aiden.

He’s a brutal man in his mid-forties. His wavy dark hair is crisp with the same sweat that eats away at his collar every day in the factory. All up and down his arms and neck are tattoos he got for a bag of pills and a bottle of moonshine.

He pauses when he sees me and fixes those cold eyes on my face.

“Dinner?” he says.

I nod. “Breakfast. It’s set out on the table.”

He doesn’t respond; he just goes up the steps and disappears inside. Ryland hangs up his phone, and I duck back into the hallway. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll taunt me a little, but not in a way that hurts too bad. If it’s a bad mood, he’ll eviscerate me over the meal until my nails are so deep in my palms, I break skin.

We sit at the table. Aiden starts talking to Ryland about something that went on at work. Bittern eats and tells me it’s good but nothing else. I clean my plate and get to picking up afterward, while the men talk at the table.

The moonshine and cigarettes come out. I go down the dark hall and into my room, shutting the door. Inside, in short stacks, sits my collection of insects, moths, and butterflies. I’ve been working on it since I was a little girl. They’re my one solace in a world that doesn’t make room for me.

I used to keep them under the porch. After Wayland, Aiden’s eldest, died and I got his room, I had space for more cases. Now, I put them behind the door and cover them with a drop cloth.

I lift it, just to look. Orange wings, iridescent shells, and yellow antennas glimmer in their cases.

A spot of beauty. A place to call my own.

In bed, I lay on my side, staring up through the window facing the road. Trucks whiz by sometimes. There’s a deadly curve a few yards past the house, and I sometimes hear their brakes wheeze as they take it.

A car pulls up outside, and I get up and look out. It’s one of Ryland’s friends, Braxton Whitaker. He’s from over the border, but he works at the factory during the summers. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, maybe a few years. I watch as he gets out of his truck and walks around the back door. Then, I hear his boots on the porch, and laughter sounds from the kitchen.

I lay back down. From here, I can see a sliver of the hall.

Aiden passes by, going upstairs. He’s headed to bed. Bittern follows, and I hear the door to his room click shut. Then, it’s just Ryland and Braxton in the kitchen, shooting the shit. They’re talking about women—in detail.

My stomach turns.

There it is—a greater awareness.

I listen for a while and hear all the words Bittern and I discussed. Then, I get up and shut the door, curling up against my pillows. There’s a blanket tacked over my window, but through the crack, I can see the outline of the mountains.

There are two places I feel at home: the one-room church three miles down the road, and the mountains. Without those two places where Aiden never goes, I swear, I’d lose my mind.

Nothing is consistent inside these walls. Outside of them, I have an anchor in these soft, green hills. In the dust that settles on church pews. In the beam of sunlight falling across my lap while the preacher drones far away.

I close my eyes. In my mind, I fall asleep curled up on the doorstep of the church, mountains folding me in like soft flannel sheets, dotted with the wings of butterflies.

My safe space.

The next morning, I run into Aiden as he busts out of the back door on his way to work. He’s having a cigarette, coffee cup hanging from his fingers. He clears his throat, and I pause, knowing he’s about to speak. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he seems annoyed.

“Here,” he says, holding out his empty mug.

I take it. He has worn-out tattoos down his fingers. Burn marks. Callouses from the factory. Every man I know is beat up like him.

He waves a hand toward the hills. “All this fucking shit. ”

“What?” I whisper.

“The farm,” he says. “I’d sell this land if I could get anybody to take it off my hands.”

I know he doesn’t want his family farm. That’s not the part that’s surprising. No, it’s that he’s talking to me like I’m human. Normally, I’m more of a maid, somebody he can point at when things go wrong.

“Property taxes,” he says, walking away and disappearing around the corner of the house.

That makes sense. He inherited the land, but the property taxes still flow out. I turn just as Ryland and Braxton walk out. That’s my sign to get lost. My stepbrother is terrible, and his friends are just as bad. I try to skirt around them, but Braxton blocks me.

I drag my eyes up to his smirk. He’s got the same colorless hair, the same washed-out eyes. I’d call him handsome, though. He sports a strong build, from his baseball hat to his steel-tipped boots.

“Hey,” he says, giving me a look that takes its time.

I’m in my sleep shorts and one of Bittern’s t-shirts—not exactly my Sunday best. Out of nowhere, I’m aware of every curve of my body.

He’s looking at me like he’s hungry and I’m something to eat. Alarmed, I duck around him and force my way into the hall. He steps aside, grinning.

“Freya,” Ryland calls.

I put my head back out. “What?”

“Bittern’s coming to work to help us today,” he says. “Braxton’s coming back around noon to get his shit before he leaves for his aunt’s house. You make something for lunch.”

“Fine,” I say, slamming the door.

My heart is thumping. I don’t want to be alone with Braxton, but there’s not much I can do. So, I watch Bittern go, and then I make sandwiches to leave on the table. Then, I strip all the beds and haul the sheets out to the tobacco barn. I usually wash the bedding once a month, but I need an excuse to be out of the house .

I’m halfway through the second load when I hear boots on the floor. I glance up. Braxton is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he drawls.

I turn back around, mouth dry. He gets closer, leaning on the dryer to my left.

“Hey,” I say, voice low.

“I gotta be going soon,” he says. “Headed up to my aunt’s, then back to West Virginia.”

“West Virginia is where my mom’s family is from,” I blurt out.

I don’t know where that came from. Rarely do I talk about my mother, because there’s nothing to say. She left when I was barely more than a toddler. The memories I have of her are like photocopies, blurred with age. I’m not even sure they’re real memories anymore.

“Oh yeah?”

I nod, trying to make small talk. “And the preacher at the church I go to.”

“You go to church?” he says, taking a step closer.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “The one-room down the road.”

The corner of his mouth curls in a lopsided grin. I wonder if the church thing turns him on. I wonder if he thinks I’m something pure to ruin. The world has made it clear that sex will change me, but men, they reincarnate themselves before the bed is cold. Sin doesn’t stick to them, somehow.

I want to believe that’s bullshit. Who taught me that anyway? Not the dusty, dry preacher who refuses to even discuss sex.

Maybe Aiden?

All my self-hatred leads back to Aiden. I know that well.

“You a good girl, huh?” Braxton drawls, pulling me from my mind.

I’m not really an anything girl—I’ve barely started living. I look over; he’s close. The washing machine thumps, making it hard to think. Warm summer air comes in through the slats of the tobacco barn and blood pumps in my ears. I see his hand come up and touch my cheek .

“Think you could give me something to think about later before I go?” His voice is low, oddly persuasive.

I wet my lips. “What kind of thing?”

His eyes flick down. “Maybe something quick.”

My stomach swoops. “Like…sex?”

He flashes a grin. “Yeah, you don’t have to do anything. Just spread those legs. It’s real easy.”

“I haven’t done that before,” I blurt out.

He cocks his head, hand working down my face to my neck. I got dressed in my favorite jeans and shirt after everybody left. His finger traces down the line of my cleavage.

“It’s alright. I won’t tell anybody,” he says.

My mind goes back to all the things I heard him say to Ryland last night. He clearly knows what he’s doing. All the men I know do is talk about sex—about how good it is, how they always want more of it, who’s willing to give it freely and who’s not.

I’m eighteen, grown up. I think I’m ready.

I swallow hard. “Okay.”

What follows is the most bewildering, startling experience of my life. When he’s gone, I go inside, ball my clothes up, and push them into a grocery bag. I never want to see my perfectly broken-in pair of jeans again.

I’m spun around. Ashamed, disappointed.

Aiden gets home first, before Bittern and Ryland. I’ve just finished putting the clean sheets on the beds and getting dinner on the table. His truck rumbles, exhaust rattling as he parks it.

I pour a shot of moonshine. It’s the third since Braxton left.

Aiden walks in and goes to the sink to wash up. I hate when he does that in the kitchen, but nobody criticizes Aiden, least of all me.

I sink down at the table. He pulls his shirt off and dries himself with it.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks roughly.

I shake my head, wordless. Clearly, something is off—this isn’t my normal silence. He comes closer, still drying his hands.

“Speak up,” he orders .

“Nothing,” I whisper. “Braxton left this afternoon.”

He stares at me and I stare back at him. Aiden doesn’t like me, never has. I’m the stepdaughter left behind after his second wife became the second wife to leave him. He barely noticed me until I was an adult, old enough to start working.

But now, he’s looking, forehead creased.

“What?” he presses.

I wish he’d just go. Aiden has made my life hell. He calls me a whore and taught Ryland to do the same. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty sure the idea of my body being ruined from sex originated with Aiden.

“Nothing,” I say again. “He just… It’s nothing.”

My voice cracks. The room is so still, I’m aware of the sudden dilation of the dark center of Aiden’s blue eyes.

“He rape you?” he says.

I startle. He says that word like it’s nothing, but I know that’s not so. Aiden might hate my guts, but if Braxton raped me, Aiden is honor-bound by these hills to put the cold end of a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

Aiden will do it too. He cuts his teeth on violence. His rap sheet is probably longer than his inked-up arm at this point.

But Braxton isn’t a criminal. No, he’s just negligent.

“No,” I whisper. “He fucked me. I didn’t like it, but he didn’t…you know.”

In his face, something ugly sparks. We stare at each other for at least a full minute. Aiden calls me a whore almost daily, so it’s shocking to me that he doesn’t say a word. He just picks up his shirt, clearly thinking hard.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Alright.”

He turns around and walks out, leaving me open-mouthed. I regret telling him, because he’s weird around me for the next few days. Then, he disappears, saying he’s got business in Pikeville. When he returns, it’s like we hit the reset and he’s back to hating me as hard as he can .

I never mention Braxton Whitaker to anybody after that. His name comes up once while Ryland is talking a few months later, and Aiden gives him a death stare until he shuts up.

Nobody ever speaks of Braxton Whitaker again.

NOW

It’s winter, I’m twenty-two years old, and Aiden sold every acre of his land to a developer from California. He’s loaded from it. It happened all up and down our valley. The developers came in and wrote a check—more money than any of us ever dreamed of. Now, our land is being logged and leveled.

Aiden sold my home, my soft green hills.

Which is why I’m standing outside Bittern’s truck in the middle of rural Montana, staring up at the nicest house I’ve ever seen, a hundred times nicer than the farmhouse we grew up in. In one hand, I have my purse. The other sits on my insect collection cases on the floor of the passenger seat.

There’s a row of brand-new trucks in the drive, the kind that costs fifty thousand a pop.

Bittern circles the truck, my suitcase in hand. We stayed back while Ryland and Aiden went ahead to develop the acreage. It was the most peaceful time of our lives. Aiden never worked well with Bittern, so I doubt he noticed his absence. I know my absence in the last six months has probably been a relief.

I’m glad he stayed. I’d hate to have to face Aiden alone.

Bittern wasn’t exactly present growing up, but he was the buffer who kept Aiden from dumping me when I was nothing but a birdlike child. Even after the accident in the mine, when Aiden got too violent, he’d rouse himself. Not to hit back, but to shove me outside to keep me from getting decked by a flying plate.

“All good?” Bittern asks.

The front door slams before I can answer. We both look up .

Aiden stands at the edge of the steps. He’s in different clothes, the blue-collar working kind, but nicer than I’ve ever seen. His steel-toe boots are new, his shirt collar not eaten up by sweat yet.

My stomach has a pit in it. If anything, getting money has made Aiden more of a threat to me. Now, he’s got a superiority complex and a plan to keep his bank account growing via a fresh start in Montana.

Who knew Aiden had it in him to make good business choices?

Aiden looks at me. He’s got that stare, the washed-out one that comes from years of desperation. A chill goes down my spine.

“You make it here alright?” he says to Bittern.

“Yeah. Long haul, but we’re good,” Bittern says, eyes down.

Aiden jerks his head. “Bring her shit in.”

Bittern reaches past me for my collection. My stomach flips as he pulls it out. Aiden goes to the door and takes a dolly from inside, dragging it down the steps. My fists clench as he picks up my cases. They’re all wrapped up in sheets. He doesn’t know they’re my insects, but luckily, he sets them down without slamming them.

Aiden hates it when I have things that make me happy. I do my best so he never sees my insects. Because if he does, the next time he wants to hurt me, he’ll go right for them.

My heart flutters as he hauls them into the front doorway and sets them down. Breath caught, I walk into a house that looks like it’s right out of a magazine. Only, it’s mostly empty. I wonder if Aiden is going to order furniture; it’s over an hour to the city as far as I know.

Bittern skirts around me. “Come on upstairs.”

Silently, I go with him, pulling the dolly behind me. I’m surprised to see the upper floor is furnished. All the rooms are set up, all eight of them, with beds and a dresser and a rug. I stand there in awe.

“You can pick whatever room you like,” says Bittern. “At least the ones that aren’t occupied.”

Right away, I know which room I want. At the end of the hall is a door on the left side. I pick up my bag and float down to it, pushing the door open. Inside is a twin bed and a desk by the window. There’s no dresser, but there is a closet and a bathroom. Distantly, I hear Bittern’s boots ring out as he joins me.

“I want this one,” I whisper.

“Good choice,” he says, putting my bags on the ground.

Bittern disappears, and I go to the window and pull the curtain aside. My stomach is a cold knot. Outside is a barren, desolate landscape, with low hills for miles, flat gray-green land, inky mountains in the distance.

Another set of boots sound on the stairs, not Bittern’s. I know everyone by the timbre of their steps. I turn, tucking my hands to my sides. Aiden comes back with the dolly I left at the bottom of the stairs. He locks it with his boot and shifts the boxes off.

I glance up, and he stares back at me, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to find something to pick at. Aiden is like a name-brand version of himself, but I know he’s just as mean as ever inside.

“I’m going out,” Aiden says. “I’ll be back late. Bittern and Ryland are going with me. Leave dinner in the microwave.”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He goes downstairs. I stand, fists clenched, and wait for him to go. After a bit, there’s quiet. I get changed into jeans and a t-shirt and creep down to explore the kitchen.

My stomach sinks—he hasn’t left. He’s leaning in the doorway, cigarette in his fingers. His pale eyes are locked on the horizon, one foot inside, one foot out. I halt, contemplating going back upstairs, but he turns, narrowing his gaze.

“Come here,” he says.

Dragging my feet, I move closer and stop. There’s no way in hell I’m getting within arm’s reach. He takes a pull on the cigarette, tilting his head.

“This is a fresh start for all of us,” he says. “Back home, we were nothing. Here, I’ve got a business, land to develop. I don’t want the shit you do to blow back on me.”

I don’t know what he means. Mouth dry, I tuck my hands behind my back.

“I…won’t do anything,” I whisper .

He kicks the door shut and comes closer, until he’s towering over me by over a foot. “You keep your legs and your mouth shut. Put your head down, get a job, pay your rent. Don’t be a whore under my roof.”

In my chest, it aches. It shouldn’t ache anymore. This is nothing new, but it still opens the doors to a flood of shame.

“I haven’t done anything,” I whisper.

That’s a mistake. It’s better to just accept Aiden’s point of view. His jaw twitches, a glint appearing in his eye. He points at me.

“I know your type,” he says. “I married your type.”

If I had a dime for every time he’s said that, I’d be loaded. It still doesn’t make sense. He acts like I’m prowling the streets, trying to get myself knocked up. I’ve had sex once in my life. It wasn’t good, and I haven’t tried it since.

But Aiden doesn’t have to make sense. He’s the patriarch, the bill-payer, the end-all-be-all. Whatever he says is gospel.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I can behave.”

“Can? Or will?”

His jaw works again, like he’s gritting his teeth.

“Both,” I burst out. “And I’ll start looking for a job right away.”

“Good.” The word falls from his lips, short and cold. He taps out the cigarette in the sink and tosses it. I draw back against the counter, watching as he gathers up his keys and wallet.

Then, he’s gone—Hurricane Aiden off to ruin somebody else’s day.

I’m left in the quiet house, alone. My shoulders sink. I got off easy, and now I can finally relax.

Alone is my favorite place. Quiet is my favorite sound.

I make dinner and eat. Then, I put together three plates and set them in the microwave. When the kitchen is spotless, I tread through the silence up to my room and lock the door.

Carefully, I unwrap the specimen cases. A familiar sense of safety slips over me. There are over two hundred different kinds of insects here, and hundreds of butterflies. My little jewelry box, a piece of my beloved Appalachia.

My mouth tugs up into a smile .

The wind whistles against the house. It’s winter and dry-cold outside, not like the breeze that trails through the soft green valleys of the Appalachian Mountains. No, this is a brutal cold I know will chap my skin raw.

A heavy feeling fills my chest. It takes me a moment to identify it.

I’m homesick—not for the aging farmhouse, but for the hills that raised me. My home, despite everything.

That makes me stop and stare out the window at the distant mountains that aren’t like the ones I grew up with. I miss the pines, the grass that ripples when a storm comes through. I miss being tucked away in the hills, high up enough so I can see the rivers snaking below.

I miss what I know.

And I dread what I don’t.