one
If Landry followed her here, she would know.
That was the logic that had brought Maggie Rowe to Solace, Montana—population 1,847, according to the faded sign she’d passed five minutes ago. Small enough that whispers traveled fast. Small enough that a new face meant questions. Remote enough that she could hide.
And Anson was here.
The thought made her belly jitter with nerves that weren’t entirely related to her safety. Six years of letters. Hundreds of pages of handwritten words between them. And now she was minutes away from seeing him in person for the first time.
Taryn, her producer, told her this was reckless. Stupid, even. Six years of letters didn’t make someone safe. People lied. People hid things.
“The network just gave you an eight-month hiatus to travel, and now you’re leaving again to go meet some…. stranger in the middle-of-nowhere Montana? You’re potentially throwing away your whole career for a pen pal!”
Dammit, Taryn was probably right.
She didn’t even know what the man looked like, for godssakes.
But she did know Anson hadn’t lied. Not about the important things. His letters had been brutally honest from the start—about his past, his mistakes, his time served. About the nightmares that still woke him and the guilt he carried.
She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, flexed her fingers against the worn leather, and turned down Main Street. Solace was exactly what she’d expected from Anson’s brief descriptions—a postcard-perfect mountain town with charming brick storefronts lined along Main Street and snow-dusted peaks keeping vigil.
The air bit at her cheeks through the cracked window, but she kept it open anyway. She appreciated the cold, the way it kept her alert when her body ached for sleep she couldn’t afford. After years of checking rearview mirrors and sleeping with one eye open, she tensed at every car that lingered too long behind her.
Breathe.
She drew a deep breath, held it for three counts, and let it out for three. The car that had been following her since the highway turned down a side street.
Just a local heading home.
Her tension eased a fraction, but she still adjusted her ball cap, pulling it lower to shield her eyes. Paranoia was her constant companion these days, riding shotgun wherever she went. She’d grown accustomed to its weight.
The truck’s heater kicked in with a metallic rattle, fighting against the November chill. Behind her, the Airstream she’d spent last summer refurbishing rattled against the cold wind. She’d found the vintage camper in a junkyard outside Tampa, then gutted the interior until it was a blank slate she could rebuild with her own hands. Now it was her home, her sanctuary, and her escape vehicle all in one.
The dashboard clock read 8:17 a.m. She’d driven through the night, stopping only for gas and to stretch her legs whenthe cramping got too bad. Her mouth tasted stale, coffee gone cold in the travel mug wedged between her thighs, and she desperately had to pee.
She needed a break.
And maybe directions.
Up ahead on the right, there was a cafe, Nessie’s Place. Wooden with hand-painted lettering, it featured a sea monster floating in a cup of coffee. The parking lot was gravel, patched with early winter frost that crunched under her tires as she pulled in.
Killing the engine, Maggie sat for a moment, listening to the tick of the cooling metal. Her reflection in the rearview mirror looked wrong—hollowed out, dark circles under eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. She tugged the worn Buccaneers cap lower, making sure her dark hair stayed tucked beneath it. The ball cap was a constant now, part of her unofficial uniform along with the sunglasses and the oversized Carhartt jacket that swallowed her frame.
“You’re fine,” she muttered to herself. “Just directions. In and out.”
She grabbed her phone from the passenger seat, checking for notifications—none, thank God—before shoving it deep into her jacket pocket. The handle of her truck door felt ice-cold against her palm as she pushed it open and stepped down onto the gravel.
The Airstream gleamed silver in the morning light, its refurbished exterior a point of pride and the focus of episode twelve of her show’s third season. She’d gutted and rebuilt it with her own hands, documenting every step for her viewers. Now it was her home, her escape vehicle, her only constant. She patted its side once as she walked past.
A bell jingled overhead as she pushed open the café door. Warmth rushed to meet her, along with the smell of fresh breadand coffee strong enough to cut through the lingering fatigue behind her eyes. The café was small but cozy. Mismatched tables and chairs, a worn wooden counter running along the back wall, and booths upholstered in cracked red vinyl. Vintage signs and black-and-white photos of the town covered the walls.
Maggie counted six people inside—a woman behind the counter, an older couple sharing a newspaper in a booth by the window, a man in a flannel shirt hunched over coffee at the counter, and two gray-haired women tucked into a corner booth who looked up as the bell announced her arrival. Maggie kept her face angled down, a habit now so ingrained she barely noticed doing it.
The woman at the counter had dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid. She wore jeans and a long-sleeve shirt under a bright blue apron that read “Bake it until you make it,” with a cartoon mixing bowl and whisk beneath it. She looked up from the register with a smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
“Morning!” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just grab any seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Maggie approached the counter instead of taking a table. Less time spent loitering in one place, less chance of being recognized. “Actually, I just need some directions, if you don’t mind.”
