Maya lasts about thirty seconds.
"What if he runs your face through some database?" she asks quietly. "What if you're wanted for something?"
"Then I guess we'll find out who I really am." The thought should terrify me more than it does.
"And if the answer is bad?"
"Define bad."
"Criminal. Dangerous. Someone people are looking for."
"Would that change anything?" I glance at her, catching the way her teeth worry her lower lip. Even anxious and pale, she's beautiful. Natural curves and expressive eyes, and that mouth I have no business thinking about. "Would you kick me out?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I should."
"But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because if you were going to, you'd have done it already. You're not the kind of woman who waits around for permission to make hard choices." It's true. Maya has steel in her spine. She lives alone in the mountains, handles a rifle, and pulls a half-dead stranger out of a snowbank without hesitation.
"You don't know what kind of woman I am."
"I'm learning." The cabin comes into view through the trees. "For what it's worth, I don't think I'm a good man, Maya. Thethings I remember, the instincts I have, they don't point toward someone who follows rules."
"That's reassuring," she says dryly, and despite the tension, I almost smile.
"But I don't think I'd hurt you. That feels important somehow."
"Feelings aren't facts."
"No, but they're all I've got right now."
We don't speak again until we reach the cabin. I carry the supplies inside while Maya starts putting things away. The easy companionship from this morning is gone, replaced by careful distance. The thermal shirt she's wearing clings to her waist, and I catch myself watching the sway of her hips as she reaches for the upper cabinets.
That night, after a quiet dinner where we both pretend everything is normal, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.
The man in the store. John Davis. Something about him triggered my instincts. The way he looked at me wasn't just curiosity. It was recognition mixed with calculation.
Law enforcement. Maya confirmed he used to be FBI, which means he might still have access to databases, connections, and resources.
And if he recognized me, that means I'm someone worth recognizing. Someone dangerous enough to be on law enforcement's radar?
I close my eyes and try to force the memories to surface. Instead, I get fragments.
Then, without warning, a memory hits.
A basement. The air is thick with the copper tang of blood and fear-sweat. Concrete walls weep with condensation, catching harsh light from a single bare bulb that swings slightly, casting moving shadows.
A man is tied to a chair in the center of the room. Heavy rope binds his wrists and ankles, cutting into swollen flesh. His face is a ruin of bruises, one eye swollen shut. The other eye, bloodshot and wide with terror, darts around like a trapped animal.
Blood drips from his split lip onto the concrete floor. His breathing is labored, wheezing through what might be broken ribs.
I'm standing in the shadows, watching. Not participating in the violence, but present. Observing. My hands are clean, but I'm as much a part of this as the man doing the actual work.
The man in the chair is begging, his words slurred through broken teeth. Promising things he can't deliver. Money, information, loyalty.
Someone else moves in the light, their features blurred like I'm looking through frosted glass. They're asking questions, harsh and guttural, and the man in the chair is answering between sobs.
