The drive into the Ozarks took several hours. The roads wound through thick forests and small towns that looked like they’d been frozen in time.

With every mile, the tension of Little Rock faded away. By the time I saw the first signs for the mountain pass, my anger had cooled into a strange kind of determination.

When I finally turned onto the dirt road leading to the property, my headlights caught the outline of a sagging roof. My heart tightened, because this was my so-called worthless inheritance.

I pulled up to the house and killed the engine. The night was incredibly quiet—the kind of silence that actually presses against your ears.

I stepped out of the car and looked at the dark silhouette of the cabin. It wasn’t much to look at, but it belonged entirely to me.

The porch groaned under my boots as I climbed the steps. The lock was old, but the key turned smoothly, which honestly surprised me.