Page 3 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

The Puget Sound glitters in the July sun, too cheerful for my mood.

I pull the battered copy of The Weight of Quiet Things from my jacket pocket, run my thumb over the creased spine one last time, and hurl it into the water.

It hits with a soft splash and disappears beneath the deceptively calm surface.

Good fucking riddance.

I hop back in my old Ford pickup, which groans along the gravel drive that curves up from the bluff, windows down despite the mist rolling in off the water.

Tom Waits growls through the speakers—Hold On, a song about surviving hard times—because apparently my phone’s shuffle function has a sick sense of humor.

The summer air tastes like salt and crushed pine needles, like childhood and all the reasons I left Dark River.

Mom’s urn sits in a cardboard box in the backseat, still wrapped in the burgundy velvet bag that Hartley & Sons Funeral Home insisted was “complimentary with the bronze package.” Like I give a shit about their bronze package.

Like any of this makes sense. I’d actually thanked the funeral director when he handed me her urn on reflex, like he’d just passed me my coffee order.

Dominic’s text this morning was typically efficient: Pick up Mom on your way in. They close at 5. Don’t be late.

Three days. She’s been gone three days, and my brothers are already in full logistics mode.

Dominic’s probably at his gym, working the heavy bag instead of feeling anything.

Theo and Alex are definitely at the restaurant they own—those two can’t leave that place alone for five minutes, even for grief.

Jack? He’s probably partying between races in Vegas, Monaco, or Dubai.

He always appears and disappears on his own schedule, so who knows when he’ll show up.

And me? I waited until the last possible moment to make the drive from Seattle, stopping at the funeral home like I’m picking up dry cleaning.

Just get through the summer, I tell myself. Sign the paperwork. Sell the estate. Pocket twenty percent and get back to my quiet apartment with its one houseplant (half-dead) and my schedule that makes sense. Simple.

I need gas before heading to the house, so I stop at the Shell station just off of Main Street.

I’m filling the tank when I hear it: “Calvin? Calvin Midnight?”

It’s a woman about my age in running gear with earbuds dangling around her neck. She looks familiar in that small-town way, like maybe we had a class together back in high school.

“It’s me, Jen Sullivan.” She smiles, and I vaguely remember a girl from AP English. “My book club read your essays last year. We were all obsessed.”

“Hey, Jen.” I keep my eyes on the pump. $47.82. $48.15.

“God, you look good,” she says, stepping closer. “Even better than on those Tiktoks I always see. The whole literature professor thing really suits you.” She laughs and touches my arm briefly. “You moved out to Seattle, right? What brought you back?”

“Just handling some family business.”

“We should catch up sometime. Get coffee or something?” She leans against my truck. “Could be fun to hear about your Seattle life. Must be so different from here.”

Two years ago, I would have said yes. I would have taken her number and met for coffee that turned into drinks that turned into whatever she was imagining.

It would have been easy and empty and exactly what she’d already scripted in her head—reconnecting with the now semi-famous writer from high school.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be around,” I say, hanging up the pump.

“Right. Your mom. I heard. I’m so sorry.” Her hand lands on my arm again and lingers this time. “If you need anything... or just want to talk...”

“I appreciate it.” I pull out my keys.

She steps back, wrapping her earbuds around her phone. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m usually at Harbor Coffee in the mornings.”

“Thanks. Take care, Jen.” I’m already getting in the truck.

In the rearview mirror, I watch her standing there, probably trying to figure out what went wrong. I pull out of the gas station, feeling like an ass. She didn’t deserve the brushoff.

But I’m not that guy anymore. Haven’t been for at least a year. The coffee that turns into drinks that turns into someone’s apartment. Maybe I never was, just pretended to be. And today I can’t even fake the small talk. Not with Mom’s urn three feet behind me.

My phone buzzes repeatedly from the cupholder. Work stuff, probably. My agent asking what I’m going to read at the big lit conference at the end of the summer. My department chair at UW wondering about my fall schedule. All the things I’m not dealing with right now.

I silence it and drive toward the house, toward whatever comes next.

Turning onto the long dirt driveway that heads west toward the water, I see the house.

Oh, damn.

It rises from the overgrowth like something that’s been waiting too long—two stories of weathered cedar and deferred maintenance.

The wraparound porch sags slightly to the left.

Moss has claimed the north side of the roof in thick, green victory.

What used to be Mom’s prized garden is now a tangle of blackberry vines and feral rhododendrons staging a hostile takeover.

The house looks tired. Exhausted, really. Half the shutters hang at wrong angles. Paint peeling in long strips. That particular sadness of a house that hasn’t been properly lived in for over a year, never recovering from the storm damage that drove Mom out.

But the cabins, which are connected by the addition Dad cobbled together when I was twelve, look maintained. Lived in. Loved, even. Mom’s porch light still glows warm, even though she’ll never need it again. Someone’s hung wind chimes from the connecting section.

I pull further into the driveway and that’s when I see her.

Maren Strand.

She’s on the porch of the left-hand cabin, sitting in a chair with a book open in her hands. Laila, Mom’s golden retriever, is stretched out beside her until my truck gets close. Then Laila stands, barking and tail wagging, but stays planted at Maren’s side as they both watch me approach.

Maren is mom’s longtime tenant who bought the bar seven years ago. We’ve had maybe five real conversations total, and three of those were about the weather. The few times I’ve been home in the last few years, she’s either been at work or I’ve been somewhere else entirely, even when I was here.

She’s prettier than I remembered. Blonde hair pulled back, a loose strand falling forward as she stands and sets the book aside.

I roll farther up the drive and cut the engine, nodding a hello through the windshield. Maren looks at me without waving, just watches me like I’m a storm system she’s been tracking on her weather app, trying to decide if I’m going to ruin her weekend plans.

I take my time grabbing my duffel from the passenger seat, anything to delay whatever awkward conversation we’re about to have. I get out of the truck with Mom’s urn and my bag, trying to look like I belong here.

I nod toward Laila as I kick the truck door closed. “She’s not supposed to have those.” The dog is currently gnawing on what looks like one of Mom’s good leather gardening gloves. The ones she special-ordered from a boutique in Seattle.

Maren’s eyes narrow. “She’s grieving.”

“She’s a dog.” Fuck. Why am I such an asshole today?

“Exactly. Dogs grieve differently.” She reaches down to pat Laila. “She needs something that smells like Susan. Taking comfort objects away just makes it worse.”

“That can’t be good for her—”

“Right. Because you’re the expert on what Laila needs.” Her voice sharpens just a little. “When’s the last time you were even here?”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I had obligations…”

“Right. Obligations.” She crosses her arms. “She’s been gone three days.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask defensively.

“Nothing. I just—” She pauses, and her face hardens. “I held her hand while she died, Calvin. And for three days after, I’ve been the one dealing with her cabin, her things while you what? Worked up the courage to come home?”

“Well, I guess that makes you the better person,” I say, and immediately regret it.

“No,” she says, “it just makes me the person who was here.”

Her words land like a slap, but she isn’t wrong. “Yeah, well.” I look past her at the cabins, jaw tight. “We all grieve differently.”

She wipes the dirt from her cheek, and when she looks at me again, the anger has drained away, leaving just exhaustion.

“Laila’s been sleeping in my cabin when she’s not with Theo,” Maren says, clearly wanting to move past this. “She can stay with you if you want, but she’ll cry all night. She’ll scratch at the door until your ears bleed. Your choice.”

The dog looks between us, glove hanging from her mouth like a prize. Her tail has stopped wagging.

“Better that she stay with you,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the duffel. “I need to get settled in the house anyway.

Maren lets out a short laugh, turning back toward her cabin. “Good luck with that, Professor.”

The way she says “Professor” makes it sound like an insult.

Like she’s seen the viral TikToks of me reading from my book, the one I just tossed off the bluff, maybe even knows about that stupid “Millennial Hemingway” nickname.

Like she knows exactly what kind of man I am—the kind who writes about loss from a safe distance instead of showing up for it.

I don’t know what she means about the house until I set my duffel and Mom’s urn on the porch and open the front door.

I already knew about the storm damage. Dominic sent photos.

But photos on a phone don’t capture how a house feels when it’s slowly giving up.

The smell hits first: musty and tired, like opening a cabin that’s been closed all winter.