Outside, the sun was bright. I got into the truck, hands trembling against the steering wheel. In the rear-view mirror, Austin’s reflection lingered in the diner doorway, eyes scanning the street.
The drive home seemed to take forever. Every curve of the road, every patch of shade, every bush and tree seemed to move with danger. I half-expected Arnie to jump out at me. When I pulled up at the house, I practically ran to the door. I locked itbehind me, then checked all the others, closed the curtains, and sank onto a stool in the kitchen.
My heart wouldn’t slow. My skin still burned where Arnie’s hand had been. And louder than anything else was the question echoing through my head.—
How did Austin know his name?
The old house groaned, the sound threading through the silence like a whisper. I couldn’t sit still; I needed to be busy. I went to the sink and started to do the dishes. Two cups and two plates. Not a lot, but I scrubbed them, clean as a whistle. Outside, a car crunched along the driveway, then a short time later, a door closed. I didn’t move, not until the front door opened on Austin’s voice, low over the quiet. “It’s just me.”
I had a feeling that whatever ghosts he was chasing, they were closer now. And before the night was over, I knew I’d finally ask the question that had been building since the diner:
What aren’t you telling me?
Chapter 10
Hurt Feelings and Explanations
Austin
After the sheriff’s office, I sat in Mason’s truck. He didn’t say much after the diner. He just grunted, handed me his thermos, and told me to “drink something.” The truck smelled like leather and woodsmoke, a scent that should’ve calmed me. Tonight, it didn’t.
Every turn of the tires replayed the same seconds: Arnie’s hand on Milly’s arm. Her face when I walked in. Her look wasn’t only made of fear—it was betrayal. The image replayed in my mind. My knuckles tightened on the door, and I hated how protective I felt. I hated how right it felt, too.
“She’s tough,” Mason said finally, his voice low enough I almost missed it over the rattle of the road. “You know that, right?”
I stared out at the dark pines sliding past. Each shadow a reminder that tonight I almost failed. “Doesn’t mean she should’ve had to prove it tonight.”
“Ya got it all wrong, buddy. The town’s already talkin’. Half the county wants to take shifts on her porch. She’s got an army, she’s got you, and she’s not alone.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “and her supposed bodyguard didn’t see it coming.”
Mason’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel in a slow rhythm. “You can’t control everything, Adams.” His military use of my last name calmed me, but only a little. “I don’t know what demons you’re running from, Adams, but Milly needs you. She’s not just your mission. She’s a woman who just had the worst night of her life. She’s scared and confused.”
The mission—that word felt dirty now. I pressed my palms to my knees, listening to the hum of the engine.
“She trusts you,” he added, his eyes flicking my way. “Don’t waste that on guilt.”
Trust. That word hit like recoil. Shehadtrusted me—until she realized I’d been keeping the whole story to myself.
The ranch lights came into view, faint in the distance, like the last glow of something burning out. Mason slowed near the house. “You sure you’re good?”
“Good’s not on the list tonight,” I said. “But I’ll manage.”
He nodded once, the unspoken language of soldiers and men who carry too much. “We’ll be on watch till morning. Send up a flare if you need backup,” Mason laughed.
I stepped out, boots hitting the gravel, and the night swallowed me. The air was cool and damp, a storm on the horizon, sharp with pine. Behind me, Mason’s truck rumbled away, taillights disappearing down the road.
The house waited at the end of the drive—warm light spilling from the living room window, moving shadows pacing behind the curtains.
Milly was awake. And I was about to walk into one of the hardest conversations of my life.
The porch creaked beneath my boots. From inside came the faint clatter of dishes—it was a noise that told stories, and if you listened, you could tell how much trouble you were in. Based on what I was hearing, I was in the doghouse without a blanket.
When I opened the door, I called out, “It’s just me.” Then I saw her. Standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, washing a plate.
“Milly.”
“Everything’s fine.” Her voice was deceptively even.
