Chapter 1: The Woods

A silent house that knows impulsive rage is unsettling. Beckoned pre-dawn by a small chorus of robins, Stella was out the door and into the woods — deeper and deeper into the pitch, where rogue branches grabbed at her long curls. She pushed on, zipping her Patagonia over her nose and mouth, head down, fingers jammed into linty pockets. In these moments, she never quite knew if she was running from something or being pulled toward something. With both, she welcomed the unspooling. It was the woods. Inky depths gave way to shadows, and she was safe. She was protected by the trees and reminded with each snapped twig beneath her feet that here she was part of something magical and profound. The spirit of the woods took possession of her despair, allowing her to breathe again. She walked for an hour, a new day in pursuit. By the time the massive Sycamore rose up on the opposite creek bank, the morning light was piercing through the overstory in a kind of fractured awakening. The spare winter brush always threatened to reveal too much. She looked furtively from side to side, then behind her. Though the thicket provided protection, she felt exposed without the summer canopy of thick vines spiraling in a green cloak across the splintered exterior. She reached for the wooden door, panels peeling like a forgotten picket fence, and tugged at the latch, disappearing into her fallen house in the woods.

Excerpt From the NOVEL LVINES by Diana Lasseter Drake