But that doesn't mean I can trust him.
"I need to go," I say, even though my legs still feel like rubber and my head throbs with each beat of my heart. "I need my phone. And my drive."
"No." The word drops like a stone.
"Excuse me?"
"You'll stay here until I figure out who's after you."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "You're not in charge of me."
"No," he concedes. "But you walked into my town. My woods. That makes you my problem."
I hate the flicker in his eyes when he says it.
Like he already knows I won't leave. Not because he said so, but because I can't.
Because I have nowhere else to go. Because the alternative is freezing to death in the Montana wilderness—if the sniper doesn't find me first.
I turn away from him, needing space, needing air that isn't charged with his scrutiny. The bathroom door is partly open down the hall, and I head for it without asking permission.
"There are fresh towels on the rack," he calls after me. "If you need them."
I slip inside and lock the door behind me like it's a bunker, leaning against it for a moment as my legs threaten to give way.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, the silence around me not comforting but suffocating.
The face that stares back from the mirror is a stranger's—pale, hollowed, with dark circles like bruises under wary hazel eyes.
My hair is a wild tangle, still damp at the roots from snow. There's a small cut above my eyebrow I don't remember getting.
I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. The wound on my palm throbs as blood beads along the jagged line.
I'm just catching my breath. I'm not hiding. I'm not terrified.
When I finally step back out, he's waiting.
Leaning against the wall opposite, arms still crossed, patient as stone. Like he knew I'd need a minute. Like he's giving me space while still making it clear there's nowhere to run.
He's holding a folded flannel shirt in one hand. Red and black check. Worn soft at the edges.
"You've got two options," he says, voice low and matter-of-fact. "I can drive you out of town right now. Leave you with a dead phone, no shelter, and no backup. Or you stay here. Follow my rules. Stay alive."
I stare at him. At the space between us. At the weight in his words. At the choice that isn't really a choice at all.
I don't respond. Don't need to. We both know what the answer is.
"Decide by morning," he says, dropping the shirt on the chair beside me. "But if you stay, you stay under my protection. And that means you start telling the truth."
He walks away, boots silent on the hardwood, leaving me alone with the flannel shirt and the taste of fear like copper on my tongue.
6
LOGAN
My boots make no sound on the wooden floor as I move through each area, methodically reinforcing locks, checking window latches, and scanning sight lines from every possible angle.
The woman sleeps on my bed, curled into herself like someone who's learned to take up as little space as possible. Like someone who expects to run at any moment.
