The blueberry muffin. That strange, specific question.That a blueberry muffin?
What the hell had that been about?
And the way he'd grabbed it, clutched it to his chest like someone might take it back. Hunger, I'd thought. But now I wondered if it was something else. A signal, maybe. Confirmation of something. Like a man who hadn’t had a blueberry muffin in decades.
The way he'd paused on the stairs, looking up like it was Everest. The way he'd asked about the owner before he'd even made it to his room. The private smile when he'd first seen Hazel.
He'd known exactly who she was.
Had come here specifically for her.
And I'd checked him in. Had handed him a key. Had pointed him up the stairs and offered him lunch.
I didn't do regret. Couldn't afford it in my line of work—every decision made was the right decision with the information you had, and second-guessing got you killed. But lying there inthe dark with Hazel's shallow breathing in my ear, I came damn close.
I should have trusted my instincts. Should have leaned into that first flicker of unease instead of explaining it away.
I wouldn't make that mistake again.
The night dragged on. I counted Hazel's breaths, listened to the house settle, tracked every sound from outside—the ocean's endless rhythm, the marsh grass rustling, a raccoon or possum moving through the underbrush. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
But I stayed alert, anyway.
Around three a.m., Hazel's breathing changed. Faster, shallower. A whimper escaped her throat, then a word I couldn't quite catch. Her body tensed beside me.
"Hazel," I said quietly, my hand sliding to her shoulder. "You're safe. I'm here."
She jerked awake with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused in the dark.
"Breathe with me," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "In for four. Out for six."
She followed my lead, her chest rising and falling in sync with mine until the panic ebbed. When she finally relaxed, she turned into me, pressing her face against my chest.
"He was in the kitchen," she whispered. "Just standing there. Waiting."
"He's not here," I told her. "And he won't get to you. I promise."
She didn't respond, just held on tighter. Eventually her breathing evened out and she slipped back into sleep, but I felt the tension still coiled in her muscles. Her body knew what her mind was trying to forget—that monsters were real, and sometimes they wore familiar faces.
Dawn came slow, the way it does near water—gray first, then silver, then that pale gold that makes everything look freshlymade. Light crept across the floorboards, climbed the walls, found Hazel's face and softened it.
She stirred, a small sound escaping her throat. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as the room came back to her. I watched her remember where she was. Who she was with. What had happened.
"Hey," I said quietly.
"Hey." Her voice was rough from sleep and crying. She blinked at me, then frowned slightly. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Some." The lie came easy.
She studied my face with those sharp green eyes, and I knew she didn't believe me. But she didn't push. Just reached up and touched my jaw, fingers light as air.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For being here. For—" She swallowed. "Everything."
I caught her hand, pressed my lips to her knuckles. "You want coffee? Something to eat?"
