Chapter 3
Asher
The moment I walked into The Frosted Mug and saw her sitting at the bar, I knew two things.
One—she had no idea what kind of mess she was stepping into.
And two—I should not have wanted to drag her out of here as badly as I did.
Claire Segal didn’t look like she belonged in this place.
The ripped jeans and Metallica sweatshirt were a decent disguise, but they didn’t hide the way she held herself with a straight spine and squared shoulders.
Alert in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with awareness.
She was gorgeous in a way that felt like trouble.
Blonde hair that fell loose over her shoulders, a sharp mouth and eyes that missed nothing.
The same woman who’d nearly run me over twelve hours earlier and then spent the rest of the day proving she could outwork half my crew was all sass and quiet determination.
And now she was asking about card games in a town where that kind of curiosity got people hurt.
Alarm bells rang so loud in my head, it was a wonder I could hear anything else.
I crossed the bar in long strides and stopped in front of her, my hands braced on the counter.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped.
She turned slowly, eyes cool and unreadable. “Good evening to you too.”
“This isn’t a place you come asking questions,” I barked.
“I ordered a beer,” she said calmly. “Pretty sure that’s allowed.”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “You’re not invisible here. People notice. Especially when they don’t recognize you.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m allowed to exist in public.”
“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” I shot back.
Something flickered across her face, anger, maybe pride.
“Are you threatening me now?” she asked.
I straightened. “I’m telling you to leave.”
She laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “You don’t get to tell me where I can and can’t go.”
“I do when you’re my employee,” I said, my blood thrumming in my veins. This girl had a way of getting a reaction out of me, and I didn’t like it. That wiped the humor from her expression.
“You can’t fire me for no reason at all,” she said. “That’s not how employment works.”
I pursed my lips. “What’s your angle?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate. “No angle.”
“That’s not an answer.” I clenched my fists at my sides.
“It is,” she said evenly. “You just don’t like it.”
I studied her. Too composed. Too steady.
“Why would someone with a criminology degree choose orchard work?” I pressed. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“I’m a grad student who needs money,” she replied. “This job pays. End of story.”
“Where do you go to school?” I watched her carefully.
“Ottawa.”
“And where did you grow up?” I fired the questions fast, not wanting to give her too much time to think.
She hesitated just long enough for me to notice.
“A few hours away from here,” she said finally.
That landed harder than I expected. Close enough to know how things worked here. Close enough to know names.
“Pack your things,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I said. “Cabin needs to be empty by tonight.”
She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“No,” she said, voice shaking now. “You’re doing this because you don’t like that I ask questions.”
“I’m doing this because you’re playing with fire and don’t even realize it.”
Her composure cracked.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she said fiercely. “You don’t get to control who I am or what I’m doing.”
I leaned in. “You don’t know what you’re poking at.”
“I do,” she said.
The word was soft. Certain. And suddenly, the bar felt too small.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re not doing this in here.”
She stiffened. “I don’t know you well enough to go anywhere alone with you.”
I barked a humorless laugh. “You’re living on my land. In one of my cabins. Working for me. You know me enough.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Public,” she said. “We stay where people can see us.”
“Fine,” I said. “My truck’s right outside.”
She followed me out into the cool night air, arms crossed tight over her chest. I stopped beside the truck but didn’t open the door.
“Talk,” I said.
She exhaled shakily. “You’re right. I didn’t come here for just the job.”
No kidding.
“My best friend disappeared six years ago,” she said. “She was last seen near here in Val-Du-Lys.”
The world tilted.
“She was supposed to cross the border,” Claire continued. “She never made it. No body. No investigation. Nothing.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m here because this town knows something,” she said. “And no one ever talked.”
“This isn’t your fight,” I said harshly.
“It is,” she shot back. “It’s always been.”
I ran a hand through my hair, anger warring with something dangerously close to fear.
“This place chews people up,” I said. “Especially the ones who think they’re smarter than it.”
She met my gaze. “I don’t think I’m smarter. I just think I deserve answers.”
I believed her. That was the problem.
“You’re not safe,” I said quietly.
“I know,” she replied. “But I’m not leaving.”
I looked at her—really looked. At the resolve in her eyes.
At the grief she carried like armor. At the way she stood her ground even when she was shaking.
She was setting off every warning I had.
And I had the sinking feeling that no matter what I did next she was already too deep into what brought her here.
It was her mention of her best friend disappearing that told me I’d lost. Not the argument, but the illusion that I could scare her off.
I’d seen that look before. On my brothers faces after mom left and didn’t look back.
On victims’ families. On people who’d already made peace with the worst outcome and were still standing anyway.
You couldn’t threaten someone like that into leaving.
You couldn’t reason them out of it either. You could only try to keep them alive.
I exhaled slowly, the night air sharp in my lungs.
“Firing you won’t fix this,” I conceded.
She didn’t say anything. Just watched me, guarded, waiting.
“And it won’t stop you,” I continued. “You’ll stay in town. You’ll just do it without anyone watching your back.”
Her chin lifted. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I’m not offering,” I said flatly. “I’m setting terms.”
That caught her attention. “You run everything by me,” I said. “Every place you go. Every question you ask. Every name you hear.”
Her mouth tightened. “You don’t get to control—”
“I get to keep my employees breathing,” I cut in. “And I get to make sure you don’t walk into something you can’t walk out of.”
Silence stretched between us. “Look, Claire, I grew up in this town. My father is the director of police and my brother is a cop, but I’m guessing you knew that already.”
The skeptical look she gave me told me I was spot on.
“This is about your safety,” I said.
“Why do you care?” she asked.
“Don’t play that angel. I know what has gone down in this town. There isn’t much that my family doesn’t know.”
Finally, she nodded. “Fine.”
The word wasn’t happy. It wasn’t grateful. But it was honest.
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” she said. “Not because you scare me. Because I don’t want to be stupid.”
I respected that more than I wanted to.
“Good,” I said. “Then we’re clear.”
She crossed her arms. “You still going to fire me?”
I shook my head once. “No.”
Something loosened in her shoulders.
“Get some sleep,” I added. “Tomorrow starts early.”
She hesitated. “You’re not my boss outside the orchard.”
“I know,” I said. “But you’re not invisible here. Remember that.” I looked around and saw some cars parked in the lot but I didn’t see hers.
“How did you get to The Frosted Mug anyway?” I asked. I didn’t see her car.
“I walked. I knew I’d have to order a beer and I’m a light weight,” she said quietly.
“I can give you a ride back,” I offered.
“Thanks,” she agreed which was surprising. I expected her to protest. I drove us back to Maple Valley. She didn’t say a peep the whole way. I pulled into Maple Valley and stopped in front of the row of cabins.
“Thanks for the ride, Asher.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Have a good night and try to stay out of trouble.”
“You too,” she answered. I noted that she didn’t promise to stay out of trouble.
She held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked toward her cabin.
I waited in my truck long after she disappeared into the dark.
My father had spent his entire career trying to put distance between people like Claire and towns like this.
He believed in rules. In order. In stopping damage before it spread.
And I was standing here, letting a determined grad student walk straight into the center of it.
Because I knew something else too. People like her didn’t stop.
They just stopped trusting anyone who tried to stop them.