As JD turned to head back inside, Joanne led the way with brisk, purposeful steps. Her air of no-nonsense practicality was apparent, yet she didn't miss the opportunity to casually gesture toward a glass-front cabinet filled with an arsenal of weapons.
The polished barrels of shotguns gleamed under the dim hallway light, flanked by rows of hunting knives and various tools of defense. JD's gaze lingered on the collection, curiosity flickering across his face. Joanne, ever watchful, caught the pause.
"Just in case," she said nonchalantly, her tone making it seem as though every home had its own armory.
He nodded in understanding, suppressing a chuckle. He'd traveled enough to know that in places like this—isolated and remote—self-reliance was paramount. Help, if it came, would arrive late. Cops were a good half-hour away, if not more, and danger often came in the form of wild animals long before any human threat.
Still, there was something about Joanne's display that struck him as both smart and slightly reckless. She lived alone in this big house, and flaunting her defenses could either serve as a deterrent or, in the wrong hands, become a liability.
His eyes wandered briefly to the open cabinet by the stairs, housing a lone pistol behind a photo frame.
What else does she have hidden around here? he mused, his lips twitching at the thought.
As they neared the stairs, a low, guttural growl broke the silence. JD's attention snapped to a massive Rottweiler sprawled at the base of the steps, its dark eyes locked onto him with unnerving intensity. The dog's muscles, even at rest, seemed coiled, ready to spring.
"Fluffy," Joanne said, her tone betraying a hint of affection.
JD raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to laugh. "Let me guess—he's not friendly either?"
Joanne's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Her green eyes glimmered with mirth. "Only if you give him a reason not to be."
JD swallowed hard, taking mental note not to make any sudden moves around her. If her pets were as combative as her personality, he didn't want to test their patience—or hers.
When she finally opened the door to the guest room, he was taken aback. It was immaculate, far better than the run-down motel rooms he'd been cycling through for the past two years. The bed was neatly made, the walls freshly painted, and even a small dresser stood in the corner, its surface gleaming as though it had just been polished.
"It's temporary," Joanne said, leaning casually against the doorframe. Her words carried the same guarded tone she used, a verbal armor she rarely let slip. "Don't get too comfortable."
"Wouldn't dream of it," JD replied, offering a small grin.
She lingered for a moment longer, her sharp gaze sweeping the room as though ensuring everything was in its rightful place. Satisfied, she turned on her heel and strode away, her steps echoing down the hallway.
Left alone, JD set his duffel bag on the bed and began unpacking, his movements deliberate, almost mechanical. He hadn't brought much—just the essentials he could carry.
Each item he pulled out was a reminder of how far he'd fallen: a few threadbare shirts, a pair of scuffed boots, and a beaten-up leather jacket that had seen better days. Despite their state, he folded the clothes carefully and placed them in the dresser as if they were treasures.
As he reached the bottom of the bag, a laminated sheet slipped free and fluttered to the floor, freezing him mid-motion. The photograph inside, crinkled and worn, showed only the remnants of a woman's face—delicate jawline and straight blonde hair. Below it, faint ink read: Smith, J.
The part of the picture that remained had jagged edges, echoing the scars it left on JD's life. He felt a familiar rage stirring within him. This small piece of paper was an obsession, a harsh reminder of the life stolen from him.
Jeffrey Daniels wasn't his real name. He had once been Jeffrey Winchester, the cherished grandson of wealthy, eccentric Philip Winchester. JD had lived a life of luxury until a fake-blonde Harvard graduate entered the picture, turning his world upside down.
Marry a glory goblin? How could he do that when he already had a girlfriend who loved him the most?
When he refused to marry the bland schemer, Philip cut him off, taking away everything he had. He stripped him of his bank account, his name, and even his education certificates. Left with nothing, he quickly learned how fast loyalty can disappear. His girlfriend left him once his money ran out.
For two years, he drifted from place to place, surviving on odd jobs while keeping the fire of revenge alive. He was determined to find the woman who had ruined him.
As JD carefully tucked the photograph back into the laminated sheet, he felt a sense of ritual in the act. The name "Smith" echoed in his mind; it was maddeningly common. He had encountered many Jane Smiths, Josephine Smiths, Jennifer Smiths but none were the right one.
He regretted his decision not to review her file when his grandfather handed it to him. After his attempt to escape, his grandfather placed a gag order to ensure that no one would discover the woman's identity. It seemed that his grandfather was more protective of that scheming woman than of his own grandson.
Looking around the neatly arranged room, he noted its comfort—soft bed, cozy wallpaper, polished dresser, and the scent of lavender. But this unexpected solace felt jarring, contrasting with the storm raging within him.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Yes!" he shouted, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice. The door swung open before he could add anything else.
There she stood—the redhead. She didn't seem to notice the tension in the room as she entered, the familiar, easy smile playing at her lips as if nothing at all was amiss.
Josephine Smith...
"Bathroom's down the hall," she said, holding out a set of clean towels with a casual grace. "Wash up and get down for dinner. It'll be ready soon."
The words hung in the air, but JD's mind was already a million miles away, caught up in the question that had become an obsession.
Could this J. Smith be her?