Chapter 1 - Fern
The check engine light has been mocking me for the past fifty miles.
I pull over when the car starts making a grinding sound that can’t mean anything good. Steam rises from under the hood.Great, just perfect. Three days on the road from New York, sleeping in rest stops and gas station parking lots since I get car sick if I drive too long, and now this. The sign ahead readsSilvercreek—2 miles.
I squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. I could call someone from back home. London would come get me, or maybe Jordan. But that would mean explaining where I am, and explanations leave trails. Digital breadcrumbs he could follow.
Robbie is good at following trails.
I lean my forehead against the wheel, willing myself not to cry. Crying won’t fix the car. Crying won’t make me any safer. Crying is what he always wanted—proof that he broke me down into something more manageable.
“Not happening,” I grumble as I grab my purse and phone. “Figure it out, Fern.”
The walk into town gives me time to think, which might be a mistake. Every car that passes makes my stomach clench. Every man who vaguely resembles Robbie in height or build sends adrenaline spiking through my veins. By the time I reach the first buildings, I’m a mess of paranoia and exhaustion.
Silvercreek looks like something out of a postcard. Main Street curves through the center of town, and it’s lined with brick storefronts that probably haven’t changed much in decades.Flower boxes hang from windows. People nod as they pass, actually making eye contact instead of the standard New York practice of pretending everyone else is invisible.
“Excuse me,” I say to an older woman who is sweeping the sidewalk in front of what looks like a bookstore. “Is there a mechanic nearby?”
She smiles, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Joe’s Garage, two blocks that way. Tell him Marge sent you. He’ll treat you fair.”
“Thank you.” The kindness in her voice nearly undoes me. I’ve been running on empty for so long that basic human decency feels like a luxury I don’t deserve.
I keep walking, taking in the town. There’s a diner with red vinyl booths visible through the windows and a hardware store with rakes and shovels displayed out front. Everything moves at a pace that feels foreign after years in the city. Nobody rushes. Nobody shoves past me on the sidewalk.
There’s a medical center on a corner lot, a two-story building with cream-colored siding and dark green shutters. Something makes me stop. Maybe it’s the neat landscaping or the welcoming front porch, but I find myself walking up the steps before I consciously decide to.
A paper flutters in the window, taped to the glass.Seeking: Licensed Psychotherapist. Inquire Within.
My breath catches. I’ve been a therapist for five years, working in a busy Manhattan practice until three days ago, when I threw everything I could fit into two suitcases and ran. The license in my purse is still valid. My credentials are real, even if the life I built around them turned into a nightmare.
This could be a sign. Or it could be desperation making me see patterns where none exist.
The door opens, and a woman about my age steps out. She has red hair pulled back in a practical braid, and when she sees me standing there, she cocks her head to the side.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I—” I gesture at the sign. “The therapist position. Is it still available?”
Her eyebrows rise. “You’re a therapist?”
“Licensed in New York. I have my credentials if you want to see them.”
“I’m Ruby.” She extends her hand, and I shake it. “I don’t work here, but I know they’ve been searching for months. The pack—the town,” she corrects herself quickly, “has been growing, and mental health resources are… limited.”
Pack. Odd word choice, but I’m too tired to question it.
“I’m Fern. Fern Ramos.”
Ruby studies me for a moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under her gaze. She has the kind of eyes that see too much, that cut through the careful walls people build around themselves. Probably why we’d make good friends under different circumstances. I have the same skill, just from the opposite side of the therapy couch.
“You look exhausted,” she bluntly comments. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I… Yesterday? Maybe?”
She makes a disapproving sound. “Come on. The diner’s got the best sandwiches in town, and you can tell me aboutyourself. If you’re serious about the position, I can introduce you to the director.”
I should say no. I should get my car fixed and keep driving. But my feet hurt, my stomach is eating itself, and something about Ruby makes me feel like I could trust her. Maybe.
