Not from wanting to be brave enough to want someone who might want me back.
Not from the growing certainty that leaving Briarhaven might be the hardest thing I've ever done.
8
Gabriel
The van door slides open at exactly 6:42 AM, and Lucy Reid steps out into the Montana dawn like she's done every morning for the past seven days.
A week. That's how long I've been watching her sleep in that rusted-out van like it's nothing more than a studio apartment.
That’s how long I've been telling myself this is about the investigation, keeping tabs on a potential witness in an ongoing case involving the Cutter Brothers and whatever bastard put a knife in Blackwell's dog.
That’s how long I've been lying to myself.
From my position behind the old grain elevator that's been weathering Montana winters since before I was born, I have a clear view of the clinic parking lot without being seen. Lucy emerges wearing those same gray sweatpants and oversized hoodie she sleeps in, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that somehow makes her look bothyounger and more vulnerable than she does during business hours.
She's gotten good at the charade. Hard hat visible on the dashboard, construction company decal peeling at the edges on the back window, the way she parks at different angles each night.
Smart girl. Too damn smart to be living like this by accident.
But it's not nearly smart enough to fool a Marine who spent two tours learning to read terrain and a cop who's memorized every shadow and routine in this town.
The guilt sits in my chest like a lead weight. I'm a man watching a young woman from the shadows, cataloging her habits, memorizing her schedule.
In any other context, this would make me the kind of predator I've spent my career hunting. The thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.
But I tell myself I'm protecting her. A woman living alone in a van is vulnerable in ways she probably doesn't even realize. The Cutter Brothers are still out there somewhere. And Lucy found Dusty, which makes her a potential target whether she knows it or not.
That's what I tell myself at night when I lie awake thinking about brown eyes and the way she laughs.
She stretches, arms reaching toward the pale morning sky that's just starting to blush pink over the Rockies, and I catch myself tracking themovement.
The morning air carries the bite of late March in Montana. That cruel promise of spring that can turn to snow by afternoon. Lucy shivers and pulls her hoodie tighter, glancing around the empty parking lot with the careful awareness of someone who's learned that safety is temporary.
She moves with purpose but also caution, checking the street before stepping away from her van, listening for sounds that don't belong.
It's subtle, but I recognize the behavior. I've seen it in soldiers coming back from deployment, in abuse victims who've learned that survival depends on constant vigilance.
Whatever she's running from, it taught her to be afraid.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I'm not just watching someone who might be connected to a case. I'm watching someone who's scared. Someone who sleeps in a van because it's safer than staying in one place too long.
The thought makes my hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. But I can't stop watching. I tell myself I'm protecting her. But maybe it's just easier than admitting I want something I shouldn't. Something I can't afford to want.
Lucy disappears into the clinic through the back entrance, and I know from a week of observation that she'll spend the next thirty minutes showering in the small staff bathroom, changing into her work clothes, feeding theanimals currently boarding, and letting any dogs outside for their morning business.
Today that means Tyson, Mrs. Cross's rottweiler who's spending another night after getting into her compost pile again.
Thirty minutes. Enough time to drive down Main Street to the Sunrise Diner, get coffee, and position myself for what I'm going to pretend is a chance encounter.
The plan sits bitter in my mouth. I'm about to manipulate a woman, use my position and her probable loneliness to extract information she doesn't want to give.
But the Cutter Brothers are still out there. Whatever happened to Dusty could happen to other animals, other people. And Lucy's the only witness we have, even if she doesn't realize it.
I start the truck and pull away from the grain elevator, gravel crunching under the tires. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the clinic's yellow brick facade, solid and dependable against the backdrop of pine-covered hills.
The Sunrise Diner sits on Main Street like it has for the past forty years, all chrome fixtures and red vinyl booths. The neon sign flickers intermittently, casting pink shadows across the cracked sidewalk where frost still clings to the corners despite the morning sun.
