"Today," I agree, feeling like I've made a decision more significant than it appears.
Morning brings a different kind of clarity, doubt creeping in as I dress in the new clothes Doc gave me. Jeans that hang loose despite being the smallest size. A t-shirt and hoodie that hide the worst of my scars. The leather jacket that feels like borrowed confidence.
I study my reflection, cataloging the changes. The hollows beneath my cheekbones are less pronounced after two weeks of regular meals. My hair is clean, growing out from where they'd hacked it short during my captivity. I've gained perhaps five pounds.
But my eyes remain the same—too large, too knowing, carrying shadows no amount of sleep will erase.
The girl Falcon fell in love with is gone. The woman who stares back at me is a stranger built from survival and scars.
Voices from the main room draw my attention—men discussing the Burns Harbor operation. I recognize Falcon's deep timbre immediately, something in me responding to it despite everything. Since our confrontation in the garage, he's maintained his distance, professional when necessary, absent otherwise.
"Two days of recon confirm the container route," he says as I approach the doorway. "We'll need to coordinate with our Burns Harbor allies if we're going to hit them on Reapers territory."
"We have the numbers?" asks a voice I recognize as Condor's.
"Barely," Falcon replies. "But we have surprise on our side. They don't know we're onto the Burns Harbor route yet."
I lean against the wall, listening. Part of me wants to step in, offer the fragments of information still surfacing from my captivity. But the memory of Falcon's dismissal in the garage holds me back.
"Ready?" Maggie appears beside me, keys dangling from her fingers. She's dressed simply—jeans, boots, a flannel shirt over a tank top. Normal clothes that somehow make her look strong instead of fragile.
I nod, swallowing nervousness. "Let's go."
We slip out a side entrance, avoiding the meeting in progress. Maggie's car is parked nearby—an older model SUV, sturdy and nondescript. I hesitate before climbing in, my hand freezing on the door handle.
The van door sliding open. Rough hands shoving me inside. A hood pulled over my head as I struggle.
"Cara?" Maggie's voice pulls me back. "We can do this another day."
"No." I force myself to climb in, buckle the seatbelt with shaking hands. "I'm okay."
She doesn't call me on the lie, just starts the engine and pulls away from the clubhouse. I focus on breathing as buildings replace trees, streets widen, people appear on sidewalks. The world continues as if the past five years never happened.
"They took me from a parking garage," I say suddenly, the words spilling out. "After work. I was a paralegal then. Had just passed the LSAT, was planning to tell Falcon that night that I'd been accepted to law school." The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. "I never got the chance."
Maggie keeps her eyes on the road, her response casual as if we're discussing the weather. "They grabbed me from a gas station off I-5. Middle of the night, no witnesses."
The simple acknowledgment of our parallel experiences loosens something in my chest. With Falcon, every word feels like it needs to be perfect, measured against five years of built-up pain. With Maggie, there's no history to navigate, just shared understanding.
"My parents died when I was in college," I continue, watching the town scroll past. "Car accident. Falcon was my only family, really. When they took me, there was no one else looking."
"The perfect target." Maggie nods. "They're good at finding women who won't be missed. Or whose disappearances won't raise immediate alarms."
The conversation carries us through town, past neighborhoods I don't recognize, to an area where small businesses give way to residential streets. Maggie turns onto a quiet cul-de-sac and pulls up in front of a large craftsman house. Nothing distinguishes it from neighboring homes except a small, tasteful sign: "New Beginnings Women's Center."
"This is it," Maggie says, cutting the engine. "Doesn't look like a shelter, right? That's deliberate."
The house is painted a soft blue with white trim, flower boxes in the windows, a porch swing gently moving in the breeze. It looks like someone's home—welcoming, normal, safe.
"The Saints Outlaws own this?" I ask, disbelief coloring my tone.
"Technically, it's owned by a foundation they set up." Maggie smiles at my surprise. "The MC isn't just leather and violence, Cara. They've been funding this place for years."
I follow her up the walkway, anxiety tightening my chest as we move farther from the car. Open space makes me feel exposed, vulnerable. By the time we reach the porch, my breathing is shallow, palms sweating.
Maggie unlocks the door without commenting on my obvious distress. "Welcome to New Beginnings."
Inside, the house is warm and bright, nothing like the institutional spaces I expected. The entryway opens to a living room where comfortable couches and chairs are arranged around a coffee table scattered with magazines and books. A fireplace with a child's drawings displayed on the mantel occupies one wall. It feels lived-in, genuine.
