“He’s going to take me back,” I stammered. My voice sounded like it belonged to a much younger, much less dignified version of myself. “My dad—he’ll make me—I can’t—”
Knox crouched beside the bed and put both hands on my shoulders, squeezing until the shaking was mostly happening in my brain instead of my limbs.
“Breathe,” he said, his voice dialed so low it was more vibration than sound. “Look at me.”
I tried. I really tried. My vision was weirdly narrow, everything tunnel-focusing on his jaw, the way it flexed and set, the slight tick under his left eye that said someone was about to have a very, very bad day.
“Listen,” he said, waiting until I’d sort of met his gaze. “He’s not taking you anywhere. You’re with me, remember?”
It was so simple, so unyielding, that it made my panic pause for a split second, just long enough to let me breathe again. I believed him. Not because I wanted to, but because Knox said it in the way you said the sky was blue or the sun would rise. It was a fact, immutable, and even my anxiety knew better than to argue with that kind of gravity.
I swallowed. “He’ll try. He’ll—he’ll bring paperwork, or the law, or—”
“He can bring the entire fucking National Guard,” Knox said, voice still calm but now underlaid with steel. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not going back.”
I felt something bloom in my chest, warm and dangerous, almost as strong as the terror that had set up shop there a minute ago. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me—not a friend, not a lover, not even a guidance counselor when I’d tried to explain, years ago, why I didn’t want to go home after graduation.
I wanted to say something, to thank him, to tell him I was okay now and that he could go back to being the world’s sexiest lumberjack. But I couldn’t get the words out without also crying, which was unacceptable on several levels. Instead, I just nodded, very fast and very hard, and gripped his wrist like it was the only thing keeping me from drifting off into space.
The voices downstairs grew louder. I recognized Ransom’s, then the sheriff’s—steady, bored, like he’d already solved whatever problem had shown up on the porch and was just waiting to get back to his pie.
There was another voice, too. My father’s. I knew it immediately. It had the same edge it always did when he was in public, the careful, fake concern, all syrup and no sweetness.
Knox looked toward the door, then back at me. “You want to get dressed, or you want to stay here?”
That was a trick question. If I went down there, I’d have to face my father and the sheriff and probably half the population of McKenzie River Valley. If I stayed, I’d seem cowardly. Also, I’d be alone.
The answer was obvious.
I started to get up, realized I was still very, very naked, and grabbed for the nearest pair of sweatpants, which were not mine and at least three sizes too large. I pulled them on, cinching the waist so I didn’t trip and die on the stairs. Then I yanked the bedsheet up to my chin for extra dignity.
Knox didn’t laugh, but I saw the flicker at the corner of his mouth. “You look like a cult escapee,” he said, voice almost gentle.
I shrugged. “I am. You’re my getaway driver.”
He reached out, hand steady, and brushed a finger along my jaw. It was a small gesture, but it was the only thing holding me together.
The knock came again, more urgent this time. “Newt!” Ransom called, voice softer. “You coming out or should I tell them you’re sick?”
I wanted to say “sick with fear,” but that felt too on-the-nose, so I just nodded and followed Knox to the door, sheet clutched like armor.
The hallway was empty. Harlow stood at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, his whole body radiating “Do not fuck with the McKenzies today.” I appreciated that more than I could say.
At the landing, Knox looked back at me, made sure I was still vertical, then led the way down the rest of the stairs and into the living room.
My father was there, standing beside the sheriff, suit pressed and hair immaculate, like he’d just come from a magazine shoot for “Men Who Emotionally Maim Their Children.” He took one look at me, in the sheet and the sweats, and his mouth twisted in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“There you are, Newton,” he said, voice syrupy. “I was beginning to worry. Are you well? You look… pale.”
I forced a smile. “Just tired,” I said, which was not a lie. “Long night.”
The sheriff, who had the poker face of a granite statue, looked at me, then at Knox, then at my father. “Mr. Bridger was concerned for your welfare,” he said. “Said you hadn’t been in touch.”
I nodded. “I’ve been busy.” I risked a glance at Knox, who stood behind me, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder. The weight was reassuring, grounding.
My father took a step forward, like he was expecting to collect a package. “It’s time to come home,” he said. “You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble and we need to resolve it before things get out of hand.”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to scream it. But my tongue was made of lead.
