Chapter 4: Pie and Quiet

Jasmine hated how the bell over the door sounded like a trap snapping shut.

The diner was the kind of place that hadn't changed in decades—checkered floors, red vinyl booths with sun-faded cracks, and a counter with spinning stools that groaned like old men. Sunlight spilled through gingham curtains, catching dust in the air like glitter suspended in amber.

Heads turned as soon as they walked in. Not all at once. Not hostile. Just… observant.

Six kids. All different shades, all walking like a unit. A woman with military posture and eyes that moved like they were still scanning rooftops. The kind of group that made people curious, not confrontational. Not here.

This was Falkirk.

People looked, then went back to their food.

Jasmine clocked every exit out of habit, but her shoulders didn't stay stiff. Not for long. The danger wasn't in the stares—it was in the quiet recognition behind them. These were people who didn't ask questions because they didn't want questions asked in return.

She led the kids to the corner booth. Always corners. Always back to the wall.

Taylor jumped in first, dragging Skyler with him. Robin scanned the room, made eye contact with an older woman knitting in the corner, then slid in. Raine followed without a word. Cameron stood guard for a beat longer than needed, then took the outer seat. Sol, smallest and silent, waited for Jasmine's nod before climbing in beside her.

A waitress approached. Mid-forties, tired eyes, calm hands. Name tag said Mary.

"Breakfast?" she asked, as if this wasn't unusual. As if families like Jasmine's came in every day.

"Coffee," Jasmine said. "And yeah. Whatever you've got hot."

Mary nodded and left.

Taylor muttered, "This place smells like grease and old people."

"It smells like quiet," Jasmine replied.

Outside the windows, Falkirk moved slow. A truck idled across the street. A man leaned against a post, sipping coffee and not missing a beat of the scene inside. Jasmine noticed him. He noticed her noticing. Neither of them looked away.

"That guy's watching us," Cameron said.

"He's watching everything," Jasmine said. "And he's not the only one."

They weren't being sized up. They were being… measured. Weighed. Judged in that unspoken way Falkirk seemed to specialize in. Where people didn't ask where you came from, only if you could pull your weight.

The man by the window caught her eye. Gray around the temples. Stocky. Clean flannel, boots that saw real work. Scar above his brow. Military, Jasmine guessed. Or law enforcement. He held her gaze, then gave the smallest nod.

She returned it.

The food came. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns. Cheap and hot and perfect. The kids dug in like they hadn't eaten in days. Taylor and Skyler fought over syrup. Robin peeled her toast apart like she was studying it. Sol dipped bacon into jelly and grinned when no one stopped him.

Cameron kept glancing at the man by the window.

"Who do you think he is?" he asked.

"Someone who understands silence," Jasmine said.

The man eventually stood and passed their booth. He paused just long enough.

"Kids look strong," he said.

"They are," Jasmine replied.

He gave a nod. "You staying?"

Jasmine didn't answer.

He smiled faintly. "Didn't think you were passing through."

Then he walked out without looking back.

As they left the diner, Sol clung to Jasmine's hand. Robin held the door for an older man with a cane, who gave her a slow, approving nod.

Outside, Falkirk looked… ordinary. The kind of town where no one locked their doors but everyone had a shotgun behind the counter. Jasmine liked that kind of honesty.

The RV waited across the street. Nobody had touched it. Nobody had left notes or warnings or questions.

The man from the diner stood nearby, lighting a cigarette. He gave Jasmine a lazy salute.

She returned the gesture.

Nothing said. Nothing needed to be.

Just an understanding:

Mind yours. We'll mind ours.

The road to the new property curved like a question mark through open hills and fence-lined stretches of land. Spring hadn't fully taken root yet—patches of frost clung to shaded ground, and the air had that sharp, earthy scent of thawing soil. The RV rumbled through the open gate, its hinges groaning in protest. Just like the real estate agent had promised: no lock, no neighbors close enough to hear.

The land wasn't much yet. A cracked gravel drive, a two-story farmhouse that leaned a little too far to the left, and a barn that looked one windstorm away from collapse. Chickens—probably strays from a neighboring property—scattered at the sound of the engine. Jasmine cut the ignition and let the silence settle around them like dust.

"Is this it?" Cameron asked, stepping down from the RV with crossed arms. He was thirteen but carried himself like someone twice his age. "Looks haunted."

"Better haunted than hunted," Jasmine muttered.

Cameron smirked. "Isn't haunted just hunting… but with ghosts?"

"Ghost?!" Taylor and Skyler said in unison, piling out behind them with duffel bags over their shoulders.

"Ghosts aren't real," Robin said, trailing behind and giving the house a long, slow scan like she was mapping its vulnerabilities.

Raine helped Sol unbuckle his booster and hop down from the RV's side steps. He stuck close to her, wide-eyed and quiet, his tiny hand gripping hers.

The farmhouse wasn't pretty, but it was solid. Peeling white paint, green shutters, a wide wraparound porch with a crooked swing that creaked like it had stories to tell. Jasmine walked up the steps and slid the key into the lock. The door resisted, but gave with enough force.

Inside, the air was cold and stale. Furniture was sparse—just enough to qualify as livable—but Jasmine had paid extra for it to be clean. No surprises. No pests. Nothing left behind.

There was a long, collective pause.

Then—

"Dibs on the room with the big window!" Raine yelled, darting up the stairs.

That cracked the silence. Sol took off after her, laughter bubbling. Taylor and Skyler immediately launched into an argument about whether they'd share a room or not. Robin claimed the sunroom in the back without a word. Cameron hovered near Jasmine, assessing.

"You really bought this place?" he asked.

"I did."

He looked around, then shrugged. "Could be worse."

It had been worse.

Jasmine stepped back outside. The wind moved across the land in lazy gusts. No sirens. No screaming. No men in suits asking questions. Just hills and space and sky.

Then a truck rolled up the gravel road. Headlights swept the porch and dimmed. Jasmine's body tensed instinctively, hand brushing where her sidearm would've been if this were the old days.

A figure stepped out—stocky, older, calm. The man from the diner.

He moved with that same quiet confidence: military, definitely. Maybe Marines. Retired, but not soft.

He held up a cardboard box. "Evening."

Jasmine didn't answer right away.

"Thought I'd bring a peace offering," he said, lifting the box. "Pie. Apple, I think. My wife made it. She says pie smooths over most things."

"She wrong?" Jasmine asked.

He cracked a small smile. "Hasn't been yet."

She stepped down from the porch, took the box. Warmth seeped through the bottom.

"Name's Max," he said. "Live a few miles west. Retired. Mostly."

"Jasmine."

"Nice place," he said, glancing toward the house.

"It will be."

He nodded like he understood exactly what that meant. "If you need anything, I'm around. I know a few folks. Good with repairs. Some… keep to themselves, but they'll come around if you pull your weight."

"No problem there," Jasmine said.

Max turned to go, then paused. "Claire—my wife—she'll stop by when she's not too pregnant to move. She's nosy, but harmless."

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "She okay with you dropping pies on strangers' porches?"

"She's the one who packed it."

With that, Max climbed into his truck and rolled off into the dark.

Inside, the kids had settled in—arguing about who got what chores, discovering the dusty TV, lighting the cheap candles they'd brought from the dollar store. Jasmine set the pie down on the counter and exhaled. No agents. No enemies. No eyes in the shadows.

Just a fixer-upper, six kids, and 300 acres of borrowed freedom.

For the first time in a long time, Jasmine didn't feel like a threat. She felt like a neighbor.