Through the window, the flashlight beam reappears from the opposite side of the clearing, completing the circuit. Marc emerges from the shadows and gives Finn a nod through the glass.
"Clear," he says. "You're good to go."
Finn steps out of the cabin and walks to his truck. He climbs in, and the engine starts, loud in the quiet. Then he'sbacking out, following the trail away from the cabin, taillights disappearing into the forest.
And then it's just us—Marc and me, in the middle of nowhere, with a killer looking for me.
Marc walks to his truck, starts the engine, and drives it into the trees beside the cabin. I watch through the window as he uses branches to camouflage the vehicle, covering the windshield and breaking up the outline. Making it invisible from above or from anyone approaching the clearing.
Smart. Tactical.
When he's done, he stamps snow off his boots on the porch, then comes inside and closes the door behind him. Locks it.
The cabin is small. One main room with a kitchenette along one wall, a wood stove in the corner, a worn couch and two chairs. A door leads to what I assume is a bedroom. Another door probably goes to a bathroom. That's it. There are no frills, no luxury, just shelter.
But it's warm. The solar panels are running a space heater, taking the edge off the cold. And it's defensible. One way in, small windows, thick log walls.
"Bedroom's through there," Marc says, nodding toward the door. "Take it. I'll sleep out here."
"You don't have to?—"
"I do." His tone leaves no room for argument. "I need to be between you and the door. That's the only way this works."
It's a protection detail. He's not being chivalrous. He's being tactical.
"Okay," I say.
He nods toward my jacket pocket where the Glock sits. "Keep that on the nightstand beside the bed. If someone gets past me, you'll need it within reach."
I touch the weight of the gun through the fabric. The reality of what he's saying sinks in deeper.
He sets the duffel bags down and starts unpacking gear with the same methodical precision he uses for everything else. He places weapons on the table, ammunition beside them, then the radio, first aid kit, food supplies organized by type.
I watch him work. He checks every item, confirms it's functional, places it exactly where he wants it. There's no wasted motion, no hesitation.
He's competent and controlled. Absolutely my type.
And if I'm being honest, he's easy on the eyes too. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, the kind of build that comes from actual work instead of gym posing. Not that it matters right now, but I'd have to be dead not to notice.
I grab Harlow's duffel and head for the bedroom. It's a small space with a double bed, a dresser, and a window with heavy curtains. I shut the door behind me, lean against it, and take a breath.
I'm a professional. He's a professional. We can handle a few days in close quarters without it getting complicated.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. There's no signal, like Finn said, but there's a notification. Voicemail from earlier.
I almost ignore it. Then I see it's from Palmer Regional.
I listen anyway.
"Ms. Mitchell, this is Andrea from HR at Palmer Regional. We need to discuss your employment status. You missed your scheduled shift this evening without notice. Please call us as soon as possible to explain your absence. Failure to contact us within twenty-four hours will result in termination under our probation period policy."
The message ends. My stomach twists.
There it is. My new job, gone. Exactly like I knew it would be.
I delete the voicemail, sit down on the edge of the bed, and stare at the wall.
Someone tried to kill me for doing the right thing. Now I'm losing everything.
