“You did.”
His voice isn’t harsh. It’s certain, and that’s worse.
I shake my head, backing up another step. “You don’t know that.”
“I know patterns,” he says. “I do this for a living, Maddie. I’ve been a mountain ranger since I left the desert. Everything about this feels personal, is there anything you may have left out?”
The word echoes in my head.
His gaze softens slightly, but it doesn’t change anything. “You need to tell me.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Stop,” I snap, heat flaring. “You don’t get to dig into my life like this.”
“I do if it keeps you alive.”
“I was fine before I got here.”
“No, you weren’t.”
The silence that follows is heavy and unavoidable. I hate how easily he cuts through everything I try to hold together.
“I handled it,” I say, quieter now.
“Yeah?” he asks. “How?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, because I didn’t. Not really. I ran. And he knows it.
“Exactly,” he says.
I glare at him. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
His gaze darkens. “Then tell me.”
The words hang between us, equal parts invitation and demand.
I shake my head. “No.”
He steps closer again, close enough that I feel it, that pressure, that pull I don’t want to acknowledge. “Then understand this,” he says, his voice dropping. “Whoever’s out here might know you better than I do.”
My breath catches.
“And if you don’t start talking, he stays one step ahead.”
I swallow hard, hating how true that feels.
“What do we do?” I ask.
His gaze holds mine, steady and certain. “We hunt him.”
A chill moves through me, not fear exactly, but something sharper.
