The clock on my phone reads 11:47 PM when I finally settle into the narrow bed I've rigged in the back of my van. Three days in Briarhaven, and I'm already falling into routines.
Dangerous ones. The kind that makes it harder to leave when the time comes. And it always comes.
I pull the sleeping bag up to my chin, the fabric rough against my skin, and try not to think about how it felt to be useful again today. To be seen as more than just another drifter passing through.
Or the way Colt looked at me when I handed him his coffee this morning. Like I was something precious he didn't quite trust himself to touch.
Outside, the clinic's security light cuts harsh white rectangles across the empty asphalt.
Montana nights in late March still bite with winter's teeth, and frost is already forming on my van's windows.
I'd parked here because it feels safer than the truck stops and rest areas I've been using. Close enough to civilization to deter trouble, far enough from Highway 2 that nobody pays attention to one more vehicle gathering dust.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
It has nothing to do with wanting to be close to the place where, for eight hours a day, I get to pretend I have a normal life. Where I get to pretend I'm Lucy Reid, temporary veterinary assistant, instead of Lucinda Kensington-Reid, runaway heiress with a target on her back.
I'm wearing my usual sleep uniform. Gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that's seen better days, thick wool socks, and sneakers. I learned that lesson the hard way six months ago in a truck stop outside Billings, when some drunk asshole decided a lone woman in a van looked like easy prey.
Running barefoot across broken asphalt at two in the morning, gravel cutting into my feet while diesel fumes burned my lungs, taught me comfort is a luxury I can't afford. Being ready to move is survival.
Always ready to move. That's been my life for over a year now.
The thought makes my chest tight with something that might be loneliness, might be exhaustion. In the endless string of highway towns and gas station bathrooms, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Sometimes I think they're the same thing.
I'm just starting to drift off when I hear it. A sharp clang of metal against metal that cuts through the Montana stillness like a gunshot, followed by a string of creative cursing.
I sit up, instantly alert, every nerve ending firing the way they've been trained to for over a year. Through the van's back window, I can see the external staircase that leads to Colt's apartment, dimly lit by the harsh security light. A dark figure is sprawled across the metal steps like a broken marionette.
My heart slams against my ribs. Someone's hurt. In trouble. Or worse.
Another curse echoes across the empty lot, this one more frustrated than pained, rough with alcohol and exhaustion. I recognize that voice even through the slur.
Colt.
I'm out of the van before my brain catches up, muscle memory taking over. My sneakers hit the asphalt without a sound, as I move toward the staircase. The cold night air slices through my hoodie like a blade.
But all I can focus on is the man struggling to untangle himself from the metal steps, muttering under his breath in a way that tells me he's three sheets to the wind and fighting gravity.
"Hey," I call out softly, not wanting to startle him into falling the rest of the way down. "Are you okay?"
He looks up, and in the harsh wash of the security light, I can see his eyes are unfocused. Drunk. Very, very drunk.
"Well, hello there, beautiful," he says, his voice rough velvet and whiskey, completely different from his usual professional restraint. He squints at me like he's trying to bring me into focus through a fog. "Didn't know angels made house calls in Montana. Must be my lucky night."
Heat floods my cheeks despite the bite of cold air. "Colt, it's me. Lucy."
"Lucy?" He blinks several times, slow and deliberate, and I watch recognition filter through the alcohol haze. "Lucy. Christ, what are you..." His brow furrows in confusion, then concern. "What are you doing out here? It's almost midnight, sweetheart."
The endearment hits me like a physical touch, unexpected and warm.
Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. I can't tell him I've been sleeping in my van in his parking lot for three nights running. That would lead to questions I can't answer, concern I can't accept, offers of help I can't afford to take.
"I was just—" I start, then realize he's trying to lever himself upright again and swaying dangerously close to tumbling backward down the metal steps. "Hold on, let me help you."
I climb up to where he's sitting and slide my arm around his waist, trying to ignore the way he feels solid and warmagainst my side, like an anchor in a world that's been nothing but motion for too long. "Come on, let's get you upstairs."
"You're so pretty," he says, his voice soft and wondering as he leans into me, his weight both familiar and foreign. "Been trying not to notice for three days, but Christ, Lucy. You're beautiful."
