"Excuse me?" I keep my voice neutral while my mind catalogs exits.
"Have we met before?" John Davis adjusts his flannel shirt, but his gaze never wavers from my face. "You look familiar. Real familiar."
I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I've got one of those faces. People tell me that all the time." The lie comes easily, smoothly, like I've done this a thousand times before.
"Maybe." But he doesn't sound convinced. "Where'd you say you were from?"
"I didn't."
Maya appears at my elbow, her hand finding my arm with a grip that's just shy of painful. "We should get going. The frozen goods won't stay frozen forever." Her voice is bright, cheerful, completely at odds with the tension radiating from her body.
"Of course." John steps aside, but his eyes follow us as we load the last bags. "You folks drive safe, now."
I open the driver's door for Maya, noting how her hands shake as she climbs in. The movement causes her coat to pull tight across her chest, and even through my unease, I notice the curve of full breasts beneath the layers. Wrong time, wrong thoughts, but my body doesn't seem to care about timing.
I walk around to the passenger's side with deliberate calm, resisting the urge to look back. But I feel his stare boring into my spine, and something primal in me recognizes the sensation. I've been watched before. Studied. Assessed as a threat.
The engine turns over, and we pull onto the main road. Maya sits rigidly in the seat, her knuckles white where she grips the steering wheel.
"He recognized you," she says quietly.
"Maybe. Or maybe he's just a curious old man in a small town." But I don't believe it, and neither does she.
We drive in silence, the town disappearing behind us as we climb back into the mountains.
"Your hands are shaking." I glance at her, noting the pallor of her skin.
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar, Maya. What aren't you telling me?"
She turns to look out the window. "Nothing. I just don't like town. Too many people, too many questions."
"That's not nothing. That's fear. You grabbed me like the building was on fire."
"I was just being cautious."
"Cautious is checking your mirrors. That was panic." I navigate around a curve. "Who is John Davis to you?"
"Nobody. Just a local." But her jaw tightens, and she won't meet my eyes.
"Try again."
"Why does it matter?" She finally looks at me, defiance mixed with fear. "You don't remember who you are. Maybe you should worry about that instead of interrogating me."
The words sting because they're true. "Fair enough. But for the record, I'm not interrogating you. I'm trying to understand why a trip to the general store turned you into a flight risk."
She laughs without humor. "Flight risk. That's funny."
"Is it?"
"You have no idea." She shakes her head. "Sorry. I'm just tired. And you're right, I panicked. John Davis used to be a cop. FBI. He's retired now, but he still has that cop look, you know? Like he's always watching."
"And that bothers you because…?"
"Because I value my privacy. Because I don't need people asking questions about the strange man living in my cabin."
I let the silence stretch. People fill silence. They get uncomfortable and start talking.
