Page 1 of Fierce Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #3)

The bitter cold of Hope Landing had teeth tonight, sharper than Jade Villanueva remembered.

She drew her scarf tighter as she stepped into the church parking lot, each footfall crackling through fresh snow.

Above, streetlights cast ghostly fingers across cracked pavement, their electrical hum a faint protest against the mountain silence.

The budget meeting had run late again. The others had filtered out in cheerful clusters, their brief sparks of laughter quickly swallowed by darkness. She’d stayed behind, double-checking the numbers. She always did. Numbers were honest.

Unlike people.

The prickle along her spine, though—that was honest too.

Halfway to her car, she gripped her keys between her knuckles, muscle memory from a life she’d buried beneath pressed suits and polite smiles. The lot stretched empty before her, nothing but her snow-dusted sedan and the dark silhouette of the church spire standing sentinel.

Each step echoed louder than the last in the vast quiet. When she reached her car, her breath ghosted in the yellow pool of the overhead lamp. That’s when she saw it.

The driver’s door was slightly open.

Her pulse jumped, fingers clenching around her makeshift weapon. She never left doors unlocked. Never made those kinds of mistakes.

Fighting the knot climbing her throat, Jade stepped back, fumbling for her phone. A quick prayer escaped her lips, barely more than a whisper as her thumb hovered over the screen. But then a shadow from her past skittered through her mind.

Not impossible. Just ... improbable.

After twelve years of careful reinvention, it couldn’t be. But until she was certain this wasn’t someone from that old life sending a message, she wouldn’t risk shattering her carefully constructed world over “improbable.”

Her grip steadied on the phone. She slipped it back into her pocket and forced herself forward.

She approached with the calculated stillness she’d learned in another lifetime.

The interior light flickered awake as she eased the door wider.

The glove compartment hung open, its contents scattered across the seats like fallen leaves—vehicle registration, proof of insurance, receipts, church records, even her emergency flashlight.

Nothing missing. Except her peace of mind.

Then she spotted it.

A single sheet of paper, white against her windshield, tucked beneath the wiper blade.

Her trembling fingers retrieved it, unfolding crisp corners.

Black ink blazed against white, each letter crafted with deliberate care, as if the writer wanted to ensure their message would burn itself into her memory:

Silence is golden. Stay quiet and stay alive.

Her heart slammed against her chest. She read it again, willing the words to reshape themselves into something benign. They didn’t.

The cold wasn’t external anymore. It had crystallized in her marrow.

Jade folded the note with mechanical precision, tucking it away like just another receipt. Her fingers stilled. Her face settled into the mask she’d perfected years ago.

She slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and started the engine. The familiar rumble anchored her. She didn’t scan the shadows again.

Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

But as she sat there, knuckles white on the steering wheel, her breath fogging the glass, the silence pressed in.

Her heartbeat filled the space, drowning out even the heater’s desperate attempt to chase away the cold.

The note burned in her pocket, its message seeping through paper and fabric to brand her skin.

The rearview mirror drew her gaze like a magnet, half-expecting to find a ghost from twelve years ago materializing in its reflection.

Nothing. Just the church’s dark outline, its spire reaching toward heaven like an unanswered prayer.

She forced her body to relax.

Her fingers found her necklace—a simple silver cross, her constant since her baptism in Hope Landing.

She traced its familiar edges, anchoring herself in its promise.

Strange how something so small could feel like armor.

More than jewelry, it was physical proof of her reconstruction, one careful piece at a time.

The girl she used to be would have laughed at faith, at hope. But that girl was gone, buried beneath spreadsheets and volunteer hours and a life built on truth.

She pulled out of the lot, eyes drawn one final time to her mirror.

Across the street, a car lurked beneath bare branches, headlights dark.

An ember’s glow punctured the darkness— perhaps a cigarette, perhaps her imagination.

She tightened her grip, knuckles bleaching against black leather.

The church loomed in her reflection, its empty windows watching like distant judges.

Funny how a sanctuary could feel so fragile sometimes.

No headlights followed. No shadows moved.

Still, the feeling lingered.

What darkness had she stirred? And why was she the target?