CHAPTER 2 — HOUSE OF BORROWED THINGS

Sable

It had only been two days since Steve’s funeral, and already Cassandra acted like she’d been living in my house for years.

She drifted through the halls wrapped in silk robes that didn’t belong to her, perfume clinging to the walls long after she passed. She laughed too easily. Touched too freely. Took up space like it was owed to her.

She wasn’t grieving.

I watched from the kitchen doorway as she leaned against the counter, hip cocked, smile slow and deliberate while Luke poured himself a cup of coffee. She brushed her fingers against his arm as she thanked him for “everything he’d done,” her voice lowering, softening, curving into something intimate.

Luke didn’t pull away.

He didn’t encourage it, either—but that almost made it worse. He let it happen, unbothered, as if her proximity was simply something I was meant to absorb.

She didn’t stop with him.

The night before, I’d walked into the living room to find her standing far too close to one of Luke’s men. Her hand slid up his bicep as she laughed, murmuring something about how strong he must be, how impressive that kind of muscle was. The man had looked uncomfortable—not enough to stop her, but enough to glance toward the hall, as if hoping someone else would intervene.

No one did.

We were surrounded by bikers. Men built like brick walls and bad decisions. Muscle wasn’t rare here.

Shame, apparently, was.

And then there was her son.

Jack treated the house like a playground. Toys left where they fell. Sticky fingerprints on walls I’d scrubbed the day before. Doors slammed. Feet pounding down the hallway at all hours.

Luke never corrected him.

“He’s just a kid,” he’d said the first time I mentioned it.

The way he’d said it made it clear the conversation was over.

Which was exactly what I reminded myself that morning—when I heard the crash.

The sound came from the family room.

I froze for half a second, dread already curling in my gut.

When I stepped inside, Jack was crouched in the center of the rug, surrounded by broken wood and glittering shards of glass. The frame that held the last photo of my entire family lay shattered at his feet.

My chest tightened painfully.

The photo was ruined.

My mother’s face sliced by a jagged line. My father’s arm half gone. Steve’s smile—wide, crooked, unmistakably his—creased diagonally, the corner torn clean away.

My hands went numb.

“Jack,” I said carefully. “What happened?”

He looked up at me, eyes too large for his small face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Were you playing in here?”

He nodded, lifting a stuffed moose like it explained everything. “He jumped too high.”

The photo. The frame. The memory.

Gone—because of a moose.

That picture had been taken before everything fractured. Before Cassandra. Before Steve’s voice sounded tired on the phone. Before distance crept into places it didn’t belong.

I inhaled slowly and stepped around the glass. I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t scold. Didn’t let the anger show—though it pulsed under my skin, hot and steady.

He’s four.

He’s Steve’s son.

He didn’t mean it.

“You’re not supposed to play in here,” I said quietly, crouching to gather the broken pieces.

Jack flinched back like I’d struck him.

“I’m not mad,” I added. “I just wish you’d been more careful.”

He glanced at the torn photo, then back at me. “Is it your favorite?”

I swallowed hard. “It was.”

“Are you gonna tell my mommy?”

I straightened slowly. I wanted to say yes. Wanted to say she should’ve been watching him. Wanted to say this wouldn’t have happened if she wasn’t too busy inserting herself everywhere she didn’t belong.

Instead, I said, “No.”

Not for him.

For me.

After a moment, I sat on the edge of the couch. “Do you want to hear a story?”

He hesitated. “Now?”

“It’s almost Halloween,” I said evenly. “You like scary stories, right?”

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the couch carefully, dragging the moose behind him.

I didn’t reach for a book.

“Ever hear about the Bone Counter?” I asked.

Jack’s eyes widened. “Is he bad?”

“No,” I said. “He just remembers things.”

“Like what?”

“Broken things,” I said softly. “Things people didn’t take care of. Things that mattered to someone once, but were treated like they didn’t.”

His grip tightened around the moose.

“They say the Bone Counter shows up when kids break things that don’t belong to them,” I continued. “Especially things with memories inside.”

Jack shifted closer to the arm of the couch.

“He doesn’t hurt you,” I said. “Not really. He just takes something small. A toe. A finger. Something you won’t miss right away.”

Jack swallowed.

“But later,” I went on, “when you’re running, or climbing, or trying to hold onto something—you realize you’re not as steady as you used to be.”

His eyes were huge now.

“And the worst part?” I leaned in slightly. “He only takes from kids who lie.”

Cassandra’s voice rang down the hall.

“Jack?” she called brightly. “Sweetheart?”

He bolted upright and ran from the room like he’d been chased.

I allowed myself one quiet breath of satisfaction.

It didn’t last.

Cassandra stormed in moments later, heels striking the floor sharp and fast. “What did you say to my son?”

“He broke something,” I said calmly. “And I told him a story.”

“You scared him.”

“I didn’t touch him.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

She stared at me like I was something unpleasant she’d stepped in. “He’s four, Sable. You told a four-year-old a horror story because he made a mistake?”

“I couldn’t discipline him,” I replied. “You would’ve made it a scene.”

“I would’ve protected my child.”

“From consequences?”

“From you.”

The accusation hung between us.

Then a voice entered the room—measured, controlled.

“What’s going on?”

Luke.

Of course.

I didn’t turn. “Ask her.”

“She’s not a guest,” Luke said mildly as he stepped in. “She’s family.”

Something inside me cracked.

Cassandra felt it. She smiled.

“He told me a story about a bone man,” Jack said from behind her leg. “He takes your bones if you break things.”

Luke looked at me then—not angry. Not upset. Assessing.

“He broke the photo,” I said. “The last picture I had of my whole family.”

“The one on the shelf,” Luke said. Not a question.

I nodded.

He was quiet for a beat. Then he placed a light hand on Cassandra’s elbow—not possessive. Guiding.

“Let’s take him upstairs,” he said.

She shot me a look over her shoulder. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you away from the scary witch.”

Luke didn’t correct her.

He didn’t look back at me, either.

I stood alone in the family room, glass still scattered across the rug, the torn photograph resting uselessly in my hands.

And for the hundredth time since Steve died, I understood exactly where I stood in this house.

Nowhere that mattered.