The thought sits heavy. Wrong.
But practical.
I've never been good at practical. Always led with my gut. My fists. Got me into trouble more times than I can count.
Maybe it's time to be smart instead of stubborn.
I pull out the phone. Search for cheap rooms outside town. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can disappear without causing more damage.
The listings blur together. All identical. Small. Temporary. Lonely.
My chest aches.
I don't want to leave. Don't want to lose the warmth of Maris's kitchen and Pebble's ridiculous antics and the way the café smells like coffee and safety.
But wanting something doesn't make it right. Doesn't make it safe. Doesn't mean I get to be selfish when people I care about are paying the price.
Footsteps again on the stairs outside. Heavier this time. Deliberate. The kind of stride that means someone's coming with purpose, not just passing by on their way to another unit.
I tense immediately. My shoulders lock. Every muscle coils tight, ready for confrontation or flight. I turn toward the door, half-expecting another angry neighbor or maybe even a reporter who tracked down my address.
Maris stands instead. Arms crossed over her chest. That worn denim apron still tied around her waist, smudged with what looks like cinnamon and flour. Her expression is unreadable, mouth set in a flat line, eyes sharp and assessing. Not angry, exactly. But not soft either.
She knows. Of course she knows. Probably came straight here the moment she realized what I was planning.
"You're looking at apartments," she says.
Not a question. A statement. Flat. Certain.
My throat tightens. I glance down at the phone still glowing in my hand, the list of rental postings on the screen like evidence of my cowardice.
"Yeah," I admit. No point lying. Never been good at it anyway.
"Stop."
One word. Blunt as a hammer.
"Maris—" I start, already searching for the right way to explain. To make her understand why this is necessary. Why I have to go before things get worse.
"No. Listen. I just got off the phone with Cara. You remember Cara? Runs the bookshop two streets over?"
I nod.
"She recognized the photo. It's not Pebble. It's her cat. Mochi. Taken three months ago when he got out during a storm. She posted it everywhere looking for him. Someone cropped it. Made it look recent."
The information lands like a blow.
"So it's definitely fake."
"Definitely. And Cara's furious. She's already commenting on the post. Calling out the lie. Other shop owners are backing her up."
Relief floods through me. Then suspicion.
"Why would someone fake this? Just for clicks?"
"Maybe. Or maybe someone wants you gone."
The words hang between us.
