Chapter 1: Thanksgiving on the Edge

“Something’s wrong—someone just jumped off a building!”

The words slammed into me like a sucker punch to the gut. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Wait—what? It was Thanksgiving, and I’d just rolled into Maple Heights, my old hometown. I hadn’t even set my battered suitcase down in the entryway before someone blurted out the news—loud, urgent, impossible to ignore.

Outside, the neighborhood ladies had already started to gather, balancing foil-covered plates of mac and cheese, green bean casserole, and sweet potato pie. They clustered together, plates in hand, all heading down Maple Street. Their voices were low, but their eyes sparkled with the kind of excitement only small-town gossip can bring. God, how they loved it.

One of them, Mrs. Parker, spotted me lingering at the curb. “Who was it?” she asked, her voice trembling between worry and curiosity.

Mrs. Gomez, clutching her casserole, leaned in. “I heard it was Autumn Reed,” she said, her words sharp as a pin.

My heart plummeted straight to my shoes. No. Not her. Autumn. I didn’t even hesitate—I took off running, gravel crunching under my sneakers, the cold November air burning my lungs. All I could think was, Not Autumn, please God, not Autumn.

Autumn Reed. My childhood best friend. The kind of girl who’d split her last pack of Twizzlers with you on the playground, even if it meant she only got one. She’d always been generous like that. Back when a dime still meant something.

Back in elementary school, it was always the three of us: me, Autumn, and Lila. We were tighter than the knots in a friendship bracelet. Sleepovers. Secrets. Trust. Glued together by all the things that come from growing up side by side in a place like Maple Heights.

Lila wasn’t a Maple Heights lifer. After fifth grade, her family packed up and moved back to the city. Some fancy private academy. Marble hallways. Sushi in the cafeteria. Autumn and I? We stayed put, scraping by in the public schools, dreaming of something more but knowing the odds were stacked against us.

Neither of us had money for private school, let alone all the extras. After middle school, I landed at the county high school—eventually, with a lot of late-night studying and a little luck, I made it to college.

Autumn’s path was different. She went through the vocational program, started working straight out of high school. At the local plant, she met Travis Dalton—Maple Heights born and bred, five years her senior, always quick with a joke or a compliment. They got married young and had two kids—a boy and a girl, just like in the storybooks. Only their story was nothing like a fairy tale.

Travis treats her like dirt—barking orders, expecting her to serve him hand and foot, never says thank you, never a kind word. He struts around like he’s king of the castle, but all I see is a bully in work boots.

It makes my blood boil. But what can I do? Autumn puts up with it, always has. I can worry myself sick, but interfering never seems to help. She just shrinks further into herself, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

I’m not big on social calls, but every Thanksgiving I show up at Autumn’s. It’s a promise I made to myself, even if I have to swallow my pride and pretend I don’t see the bruises.

Every time I walk through that door, Travis grates on my nerves. I roll my eyes so hard I swear one day they’ll get stuck. Not that he’d ever notice. Too busy bragging about his new truck, his three-story house, his latest bonus. The man never met a mirror he didn’t like.

Travis never changes. His face always has that greasy, self-satisfied grin, like he’s just waiting for someone to ask about his bank account. As if anyone cared. He talks about money like it’s the only thing that matters, waving it around like a winning lottery ticket at the gas station.

A few years back, he took Autumn’s wedding savings—money she’d scrimped and saved for a honeymoon that never happened—and used it to start his own business. It actually worked out for him, and he hasn’t let anyone forget it since. Not for a second.

Now, he drives the flashiest F-150 in the county, parks it right out front like a billboard for his ego. Built his own three-story house, too—all brick, all show, giant American flag waving from the porch. He wears snakeskin boots and a shiny designer belt, strutting around like he’s the mayor of Maple Heights. Every time he walks by, you half expect him to hand out business cards that say “Big Shot.”

I remember the first time I saw his truck. He leaned on the hood, grinning like a game show host. “See that? Lift kit, chrome, V8—now that’s a real ride. What y’all drive is just basic wheels.” I almost laughed. My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Good thing you only bought a truck. If you got a helicopter, you’d probably be dropping flyers over the whole town.”

Meanwhile, Autumn is at home, barefaced, running after the kids, too careful with every penny to even buy herself a new dress. A bottle of off-brand lotion from Dollar General, hidden in the medicine cabinet—that’s her only luxury.

She used to be beautiful—really beautiful. Even as a kid, I remember thinking she could be in a magazine. Now, when you see her, you wouldn’t believe she’s only in her early thirties. Life with Travis has aged her a decade. Easy.

Travis acts like he’s some big-city hotshot, but Autumn’s the one left holding the bag—tired, overlooked, invisible. It kills me to see her like that. Every damn visit.

It’s like talking to a wall. Eventually, I gave up. You can’t save someone who won’t save themselves. Still, deep down, I always knew she’d hit her breaking point. I just never thought it would come so soon—or so violently.

When I got to Autumn’s house, the whole street was packed. Neighbors crowded the yard, craning their necks, whispering behind their hands. Sirens wailed in the distance, cutting through the crisp autumn air.

I looked up. Autumn was on the rooftop—three stories up, clinging to the edge, her cries echoing across the neighborhood. The sight of her up there, so small and desperate, made my knees go weak. I nearly buckled.

I raced inside, taking the stairs two at a time. Upstairs, her parents and in-laws milled around, faces pale, voices frantic. Her mom sobbed. Her dad paced. Like a caged animal.

Her father-in-law, arms crossed and face set in a scowl, spat out, “If you dare jump, you won’t be part of the Dalton family anymore. You won’t even get buried with us.”

The words hit Autumn like a slap. She wailed even harder, her sobs raw. Broken. I stared at the old man, disbelief twisting my gut. Who says something like that when someone’s on the edge?

I couldn’t take it. I found some excuse to get him to shut up, then turned my attention to Autumn. I spoke soft, tried to ground her, to remind her she wasn’t alone. Miraculously, she listened, though her shoulders still shook with every breath.

Between hiccuping sobs, she managed, “He won’t even come home for Thanksgiving—what’s the point anymore?”

And there it was—the real reason. Travis, her husband, hadn’t bothered to come home for the holiday. For Autumn, Thanksgiving wasn’t just about turkey and pie—it was about family. About being seen and loved. Travis couldn’t even give her that.

Like I said, Autumn’s always put up with Travis. He kept pushing. Testing. Always more. He must’ve figured out she was easy to push around, so he kept pushing, testing her limits, seeing how far he could go.

Now, he’s out every night—partying, gambling, chasing women, drinking until dawn. He’s got a tab at every bar in the county, knows every bartender by name. Last month, he brought home a girl young enough to be his daughter. Called her his “girlfriend.”

Someone—probably Mrs. Parker—asked, “Aren’t you married? Where’d this girlfriend come from?”

He just laughed. “A wife is a wife, a girlfriend is a girlfriend. These days, what guy with cash doesn’t have a side piece or two?”

And with that, he moved his “girlfriend” right into the house. Autumn and the kids got shoved into the guest room, while Travis played house with his new toy. No shame, no remorse—just arrogance. I wanted to puke.

It gets worse. Autumn, eyes red and swollen, went to her parents for help. They told her, “Just deal with it. It’ll blow over.”

Her mother-in-law chimed in, “Men are like that. It’s normal for them to fool around.” Men. Always the same.

Then she strutted around town, bragging about her son’s success, as if Travis’s cheating was something to be proud of. The neighbors nodded along, some even congratulating her. I wanted to scream. But I bit my tongue.

At first, a few folks called Travis out, but when nothing changed, they just shrugged and told Autumn to be more forgiving. Easy for them to say—it wasn’t their marriage falling apart. Not their life.

I wanted to wring their necks, but Autumn just kept her head down, enduring. That pain festers. Turns into something darker.

It happened after Travis called to say he’d be spending Thanksgiving in the city with his mistress. That was the final straw. She broke. Autumn bolted up to the roof, and the whole town followed.

My brother, always the pragmatist, muttered, “Jumping from the third floor, there’s a good chance you won’t die—you’ll just end up busted up and hurting.”