CHAPTER TWELVE
KIERAN
I PATIENTLY WAIT until Hazel drifts off, her breathing slowing to a soft, steady rhythm. Her lashes flutter briefly before settling against her cheeks, and a slight twitch of her hand signals she’s lost to the world of dreams. Beside her, Charlie doesn’t move—his small body curled into a warm, protective ball of fur pressed snugly against her side. His soft snores rise and fall in time with her breaths, creating a peaceful harmony.
I ease out of the room and tread carefully. The old wooden floorboards groan beneath my weight, protesting quietly as I make my way toward the door. Even the faintest creak feels like thunder, but no one stirs.
I reach for the flashlight I stashed earlier near the door, its cold metal casing familiar beneath my fingers.
My breath clouds the air as I step outside. The night is cool and crisp, the kind that bites at your skin and makes you alert. Perfect for clarity—and hunting down threats.
I scan the area, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the shadows. The ground is soft from last night’s rain, leaving the kind of surface that holds secrets if you know where to look. And I do.
I crouch near the edge of the clearing, where the dirt path winds back toward the trees, and that’s where I see them—footprints. Someone was here. Someone close enough to watch the house, close enough to lure Charlie outside.
I grit my teeth, my mind racing through possibilities. An enemy? Someone looking for Sean? The thought tightens something cold and heavy in my chest. If they came for him, they’re too late. He’s rotting at the bottom of the lake, and no one will find him. Not unless they drain the damn thing. And by then, I’ll be long gone.
I rise, my eyes scanning the distance, but the night offers no answers, only the rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind. We can’t stay here. Not anymore.
On the way back to the house, my mind drifts to Hazel for the thousandth time. She saved me, pulled me back from the ledge when she could have let me fall. It would have been easy for her. One less problem in her life. But she didn’t. And that thought—that act of mercy—it lingers. Makes everything more complicated.
Could I kill her now? No. The idea feels...wrong. Too much, but I’m not sure how this will end.
Inside, the warmth of the house contrasts sharply with the chill outside, but I don’t let myself relax. Not yet. I grab the bleach from under the sink and start scrubbing. Every surface, every trace of us being here, has to be wiped clean. My hands move on autopilot, muscle memory from years of doing this kind of work. Blood, fingerprints, evidence—it all vanishes under the harsh smell of chemicals.
When I finally crawl into bed, the sun is starting to rise, casting a dim light through the curtains. I close my eyes, but my mind refuses to shut off. Images of footprints, Hazel’s pulling me back from the ledge, and the weight of my own secrets swirl together until exhaustion finally wins.
I wake to the sound of pacing outside my room door. The footprints spring to mind, and I jump out of bed, with my fingers wrapped around the gun I stashed under the pillow. I open the door but keep hidden until I see a flash of red curls. I relax and open the door fully.
Her voice is soft but hesitant as she takes me in. “I want to take a shower.”
I leave the door open and stash the gun in a nightstand drawer at my bedside; when I turn, she’s watching me, her hair tangled, lips pressed together like she’s debating whether to say more, yet her eyes scan the room I’m staying in like she might learn something about me. She won’t.
“So, I’d like the camera turned off in the bathroom,” she adds.
I almost laugh. The camera was never on. I don’t need to watch her in there—I already know everything I need to. But I don’t tell her that. “Later,” I say instead. “We’re leaving today.”
Her brows knit together, and I see the questions forming in her eyes. She doesn’t ask right away, but when she does, her voice is edged with suspicion. “Where are we going?”
I pull off my t-shirt and find a fresh one; the one from last night stinks of bleach. “You’ll see.”
“Kieran—”
I glance at her, and her cheeks are red; she chews her lip.
“We are going to another safe house.”
She exhales what sounds like pain and fear. I have no other words for the look on her face. Something inside me twists, but I push it aside.
“You need to go to the basement.” My tone leaves no room for argument.
Hazel freezes, her body stiffening as the words sink in. The dim light overhead casts a soft glow on her hair, and for a moment, she’s a statue—untouchable, defiant. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, a flicker of rebellion sparking like a match striking against steel. I know that look. She’s deciding how far she can push me before I snap.
"Why?" she asks, her voice steady but low, as if she’s trying not to crack. "I won't try to run."
She glances out into the hall, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows as if weighing her options. But I already hear Charlie coming, the soft thud of his paws on the hardwood floor growing louder by the second.
"I have a few things to tie up before we leave," I say, stepping closer. The room feels smaller now, suffocating with the tension between us. Her gaze darts across the space, pausing on the nightstand where I stashed the gun earlier. Her lips press together, a silent acknowledgment that she knows exactly where it is.
"Don’t," I warn, pushing the weight of my authority into the word. "Hazel."
She flinches slightly but doesn’t break eye contact. I don’t want to hurt her, but if she forces my hand, I will. She has to know that. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating her again. Not after she saved me from falling to my death and reminded me just how unpredictable she can be.
"I don’t like the basement," she finally admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
I exhale slowly, fingers curling into fists at my sides. “It’s only for a short time,” I say, softening my tone against my better judgment. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. Not to her. But the fact that she pulled me back from the edge—literally—earns her this small courtesy.
Her shoulders rise with a sharp breath, then fall just as quickly. She mutters something under her breath, too quiet for me to catch, before turning away from the door. Defeat lingers in her steps, heavy but reluctant. I watch her as she moves, the set of her jaw tight, her movements stiff, like she’s fighting the urge to spin around and scream at me.
I grab my shoes and slip them on, my fingers moving with practiced ease. Then I reach for the gun, sliding it into the waistband of my jeans with a familiar weight that grounds me. Charlie trails behind, his tail wagging lazily as if this is just another routine task. For me, maybe it is. For Hazel? I’m not so sure.
The basement door creaks open, and I follow her down the narrow staircase. The cool air wraps around us like a second skin, the faint scent of damp concrete and old wood filling my nostrils. It’s darker down here, the only light coming from the dim bulb overhead, casting shadows that seem to stretch and breathe.
Hazel doesn’t say a word as she reaches the bottom. She crosses the room, her bare feet padding softly against the cold floor before she sinks to the ground, back pressed against the wall. Her knees draw up to her chest, and she wraps her arms around them like she’s trying to make herself smaller, invisible. But I see everything—the way her fingers grip her legs, the tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze fixes on the floor instead of me. She’s unraveling, one thread at a time.
I step closer, but she doesn’t look up. She’s regretting her decision to save me. I can feel it radiating off her like heat.
I hesitate, my fingers flexing at my sides. I should say something, maybe even thank her again. But what would be the point? She doesn’t want my gratitude. She wants out. Out of this basement. Out of my world.
But there’s no out. Not for her. Not anymore.
The door creaks as I pull it shut behind me, the sound echoing like the closing of a cell. I glance at her through the small window in the door and see her flinch, but she doesn’t move. For a brief second, guilt coils in my chest, tight and suffocating, but I shove it down. I don’t have time for this. Not now.
I turn away and get to work, my mind already shifting to the tasks ahead. But even as I load the gun and check the ammo, I can’t shake the image of her sitting there—silent, defiant, and broken all at once.
And I wonder how long she’ll stay that way before she fights back.
I leave the house and take Hazel’s car, filling it up with gas before heading inside a store to purchase food to replace what we used in the cabin. I make sure to grab extra to take with us to the next place before heading back to the cabin. I move through the house quickly, resetting everything. The food in the fridge, the furniture placement—everything needs to look untouched. I clean the last few spots of dirt on the floor, double-checking for anything out of place. By the time I’m done, my muscles ache, and the smell of bleach clings to my skin.
I grab a duffel bag; stuffing it with supplies: non-perishables, water, medical kits—anything we might need. The bag is heavy, but it’s reassuring. Prepared. Controlled. I put it all into the trunk of the car along with Hazel’s belongings; the only thing I keep is her shoes, which I carry with me down to the basement.
She’s still sitting where I left her, Charlie resting his head on her knee. She looks up as I approach, her eyes narrowed in quiet rebellion.
“Let’s go,” I say, holding out her shoes.
She hesitates for a moment before standing, scooping her shoes from me, and putting them on. She doesn’t ask any more questions but follows me back upstairs.
We step outside, and the air feels heavier now, like the world knows we’re running.
“You drive,” I say.
I can feel her tension as we pile into her car. I hand her the keys.
She stares at the keys in her hand, then at me. “Why?”
“Because I said so.” My voice is calm, but she knows better than to push.
The engine rumbles to life, and we pull out onto the road. The silence between us is thick, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think, to plan. Each mile takes us farther from the footprints, the bleach, the memories of what almost happened.
I give her directions, and she follows them but glances in the rearview mirror at Charlie several times throughout the drive.
When we finally reach the house, it’s exactly as I left it—half-renovated, isolated, and perfect. The mountains stretch out around us, a natural fortress, and the trees sway gently in the breeze as if welcoming us into their depths.
I step out of the car and inhale deeply. This place will do. For now.
Hazel gets out slowly, her gaze sweeping over the unfinished exterior, the overgrown yard. “What is this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Home.” I meet her eyes, watching the confusion, fear, and suspicion ripple through her. She doesn’t trust me. But that’s fine. She doesn’t need to. She just needs to stay.
As she stands there, I walk past her, unlocking the door, and stepping inside. The air smells of sawdust and fresh wood, the scent of something unfinished but full of potential.
“Come on,” I say over my shoulder. “It’s time to settle in.”
For better or worse, this is where we’ll be. And she’s not leaving until I say so.