one
. . .
Beck
I wipedown the last table at Rusty's Diner, my fingers cramping from six hours of carrying plates and refilling coffee mugs. The rain pounds against the windows, turning the parking lot into a blur of neon reflections on wet asphalt. This place is my fourth job in as many months—always moving, always looking over my shoulder since that damn clerical error put a price on my head. A girl sharing my name robbed a bank two states over, and somehow, I'm the one with bounty hunters tracking me like I'm worth something.
"Beck, honey, you sure you don't want a ride?" Marge calls from behind the counter, her gray hair piled into a messy bun. "Storm's getting nasty out there."
"I'm good." I tug my soft cardigan tighter around me. It's already damp from running trash to the dumpster earlier. "Just three blocks."
Three blocks to my rented cabin. Three blocks of exposure. Three blocks where anyone could be watching.
"Suit yourself." She tosses me a paper bag. "Leftover pie. You're too skinny."
I catch it with a small smile. Kindness still catches me off guard these days.
The bell jingles as I push through the door, and the mountain air hits me like a cold slap. The Blue Ridge Mountains loom around this tiny town, massive shadows cutting through the mist and rain. During the day, they're beautiful. At night, they're just another place for threats to hide.
I pull my hood up and start walking, shoulders hunched against the rain. The pavement glistens under the sparse streetlights, and fog curls between buildings like ghostly fingers. I've been in this town for nearly a month now—longer than anywhere else since this nightmare started.
Beck Marie Monroe. That's the name on the bounty. So close to mine—Beck Maria Monroe—that some database somewhere merged us into one person. Her: a thief with a rap sheet. Me: a small-town girl with nothing but a high school diploma and a knack for remembering breakfast orders.
I don't even know if I look like her. Maybe I do because the bounty's still out there, and my protests to the authorities went nowhere.
A car splashes by, headlights cutting through the mist, and I flinch.It's just a car. Just a normal car. Not everyone is hunting you.
But someone is.
The back of my neck prickles, that eerie sensation of being watched. I glance behind me—nothing but empty sidewalk disappearing into fog and rain. I'm being paranoid again. But paranoia has kept me alive for the last six months.
I cut down the alley between the hardware store and the laundromat—my usual shortcut. The sound of rain changes here, confined by brick walls on either side. Dripping, echoing. My sneakers splash through puddles, soaking my socks.
A shadow moves ahead.
I freeze.
"Beck Monroe?" A rough voice, male. A figure steps into what little light filters down from a security lamp. Thick build, baseball cap pulled low, something metal glinting in his hand. "Gonna need you to come with me, sweetheart. You're quite the big payday."
My heart hammers against my ribs. My feet won't move. My voice is trapped somewhere between my chest and throat.
Handcuffs. He's holding handcuffs.
"I'm not—" I try, but he's already advancing.
"Save it for the judge." He grins, yellowed teeth flashing. "Though I gotta say, your picture doesn't do you justice."
My back hits the brick wall. When did I start moving backward? I clutch my bag of pie like it's some kind of shield. Pathetic.
"Please," I manage. "There's been a mistake?—"
He lunges forward, grabbing my wrist hard enough to bruise. "They all say that?—"
The air shifts. Something—someone—emerges from the shadows behind him. Someone massive. The bounty hunter hasn't noticed, still focused on snapping the first cuff around my wrist.
Then a hand—enormous, scarred—clamps around the hunter's throat from behind.
The hunter makes a strangled sound, dropping the cuffs. They clatter against the wet pavement. I should run. Why aren't I running?
