Chapter 16 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and unavoidable. Maya's hands tighten on the steering wheel, her knuckles going white, and I watch the muscle in her jaw jump as she clenches her teeth.
I'm not wrong. I know I'm not wrong.
The photograph, the isolation, the way she moves through town like she's expecting someone to recognize her. The careful construction of "Maya" as an identity rather than a person. It's all there, written in every defensive gesture, every deflection, every lie she tells herself is protection.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm a man with no memory accusing a woman of hiding her past. But at least I'm honest about not knowing who I am. She's built an entire life around pretending.
"I'm not having this conversation," she finally says, her voice tight.
"We just did."
"No. You made an accusation. That's not a conversation."
I lean back in the passenger seat, watching the landscape roll past. Trees give way to open sky, then back to trees. The road winds down the mountain in lazy curves, almost peaceful.
"I'm not judging you," I say quietly. "Whatever you're running from, whoever you're hiding from, that's your business."
"Then why bring it up?"
"Because if someone's looking for you, and someone's looking for me, we need to know if those someones are connected.
" I turn to look at her profile, the stubborn set of her chin, the way her dark blue eyes stay fixed on the road.
Even tense and defensive, she's beautiful.
The morning light catches in her blonde hair, and I find myself noticing the curve of her neck, the way her sweater clings to full breasts that rise and fall with each breath.
"We need to know what we're dealing with. "
She's quiet for a long moment. The truck's engine hums, and gravel crunches under the tires as we round another curve.
"They're not connected," she says finally. "The people looking for me have no reason to care about you."
Does she realize she just admitted that someone is looking for her? I want to press, to ask who, but I don't want to scare her away again. "You sure about that?"
"Yes." But she doesn't sound sure. She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.
I let it drop. Pushing her will only make her retreat further, and right now, I need her focused. Need us both focused.
The town appears through the trees, small and unremarkable. A main street with maybe a dozen buildings, half of them looking like they haven't been updated since the 1950s. A general store, a diner, a post office, and at the far end, the hardware store.
Maya parks in front of the hardware store, and we sit there for a moment, both of us scanning the street. Looking for threats. Looking for anything out of place. Then we get out of the truck and act as normal and as inconspicuous as possible.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and the smell of sawdust and motor oil hits me immediately. It's familiar in a way I can't explain, like I've been in a thousand places just like this. The aisles are narrow, packed with tools and supplies, and at the back counter stands John Davis.
He looks up when we enter, and I see the recognition flash across his face before he schools his expression into something neutral. Professional.
"Morning," he calls out, his voice friendly but his eyes sharp. "Help you folks find anything?"
"Just browsing," Maya says, moving toward the aisle with batteries and flashlights. I follow, keeping her in my peripheral vision while watching Davis.
He doesn't go back to whatever he was doing. He stands there, watching us with the kind of attention that makes my instincts scream warnings I don't fully understand.
I pick up a package of batteries, pretending to read the label while actually watching Davis's reflection in the small security mirror mounted in the corner. He's studying me, his gaze moving over my face, my build, the way I carry myself.
He recognizes me. Or suspects he does.
"Another storm's supposed to hit again tomorrow," Davis says, moving out from behind the counter. He walks toward us with the casual ease of someone who owns the space, but there's calculation in every step. "You got everything you need, Maya?"
Maya stiffens beside me. "We're fine."
"Good, good." He stops at the end of our aisle, leaning against a display of work gloves.
He turns his attention to me. "You settling in okay? Must be quite a change from wherever you're from."
"It's fine."
"Where was that again?"
The question is casual, but the intent behind it isn't. He'd already asked me the first time I'd met him. I didn't answer then and I'm not going to now. This is an interrogation disguised as small talk, and I recognize the technique because I've used it myself. The memory surfaces without warning.
Sitting across a metal table from a man in a cheap suit, his badge clipped to his belt.
FBI, probably. Or state police. The details are fuzzy, but the feeling isn't. The careful dance of answering questions without actually saying anything.
The way I lean back in my chair, relaxed and cooperative, while giving him absolutely nothing useful.
"I'm happy to help, agent. But I'm not sure what you think I know about this." The lie comes easily, smoothly, like I've done this a hundred times before.
I blink, and I'm back in the hardware store. Davis is still waiting for an answer, his hazel eyes patient but persistent.
Maya steps between us, her body language protective in a way that makes something warm unfurl in my chest despite the tension. "We should get going. Still need to stop at the general store."
But I'm not ready to leave yet. Not when Davis might have information we need.
"Actually," I say, keeping my voice casual, "we heard there were some men in town asking questions. You know anything about that?"
Davis's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or respect for the direct approach.
"Heard about that, did you?" He crosses his arms, and the gesture pulls his flannel shirt tight across his chest. He's lean but solid, the build of someone who stays active. "Yeah, couple of guys came through a few days ago. Driving a black SUV, in expensive suits. Stood out like sore thumbs."
"What were they asking about?" Maya's voice is steady, but I feel the tension radiating off her.
Davis's gaze moves between us. "Seemed mostly interested in finding a man. Said he was a friend who'd gone missing, but…" He shrugs. "Didn't feel like a friendly search, if you know what I mean."
"How so?" I ask.
"They were armed. Saw the bulge under their jackets when they reached for their wallets.
And the way they asked questions, it wasn't concerned friends looking for someone.
It was professionals looking for a target.
" He pauses. "Looked like the Mob to me.
But what do I know? I'm just a retired guy selling hammers. "
The casual way he says it makes my skin prickle. He knows exactly what he saw, and he's telling us he knows what we are. Or what he thinks we are.
"Did they say where they were headed?" Maya asks.
"Nope. Just asked their questions and left. But I'd bet money they're still in the area. Men like that don't give up easily." Davis straightens, moving back toward the counter. "You folks need anything else? We've got a sale on generator parts."
"We're good," I say, already guiding Maya toward the counter with a hand on the small of her back. The contact sends heat through me despite everything, and I notice the way her body responds, leaning slightly into my touch before she catches herself.
We pay for the batteries and leave, the bell chiming behind us. The street is quiet, just a few locals going about their business, but I feel exposed. Watched.
"There's a cafe across the street," Maya says, nodding toward a small building with gingham curtains in the windows. "We should eat something before we head back."
I want to refuse, to get us back to the cabin where I can control the environment, but she's right. We need to maintain the appearance of normalcy, and maybe we'll learn more about the men who were looking for us.
"Fine. But we sit where I can see the door."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. "Of course you do."
The cafe is called Mountain View, and inside, it's warm and smells like coffee and frying bacon. A handful of locals occupy the booths, and every single one of them looks up when we enter.
The sensation of being examined crawls over my shoulders like ice water down my spine.
I catalog each face, each position, each potential threat.
Old man in the corner, hands too arthritic to be dangerous.
Two women in their fifties sharing pie, locals by the way they're dressed.
Young guy at the counter in work clothes, more interested in his phone than us.
"Relax," Maya murmurs as we slide into a booth. "You look like you're about to start a war."
"I'm always about to start a war. It's my natural state." I frown. "Or at least I think it is."
She laughs, and the sound does something to ease the tension in my chest.
A waitress appears, an older woman with kind eyes and a name tag that reads Betty. She pours coffee without asking and hands us laminated menus that have seen better days.
"What can I get you folks?"
Maya orders a burger and fries. I get the same, though I'm not particularly hungry. Hard to have an appetite when you're calculating exit routes and threat assessments.
When Betty leaves, Maya leans forward, and I can't help but notice how the movement makes her sweater pull tight across her breasts.
"Stop looking at me like that," she says, but there's heat in her eyes.
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about things that have nothing to do with lunch."
"Can't help it. You're distracting."
She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're impossible."
"You like impossible."
"Unfortunately, I think I do."
Our food arrives quickly, and we eat in relative silence. I'm hyperaware of every movement in the cafe, every time the door opens, every glance in our direction. I'm so focused, I don't even taste the food as I eat.
Maya, on the other hand, seems to actually enjoy her meal. She steals one of my fries, and when I raise an eyebrow at her, she grins.
"What? Yours looked better."
"They're the same fries."
"Stolen food always tastes better. It's a scientific fact."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely. I read it somewhere." She takes another fry, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact. The gesture is playful and sexy, and for a moment, I forget we're being hunted.
But the moment doesn't last. The door opens, and I tense automatically, hand moving toward the back of my waistband as if I expect a gun to be there. It's just another local, an old woman with a shopping bag, but the damage is done. The spell is broken.
Maya notices. She always notices. Her hand finds mine across the table, squeezes once. "We're okay."
I want to believe her. I want to exist in a world where we can have lunch in a small town cafe without looking over our shoulders.
We finish eating and pay at the counter. As we step outside, the cold air hits my face like a slap. I'm already planning our route back to the cabin, already thinking about what defenses I need to reinforce.
"Hey, folks."
I turn. John Davis is standing in the doorway of the hardware store, arms crossed over his chest. The afternoon sun is behind him, casting his face in shadow.
"Be careful out there," he calls. "Montana can be dangerous for people who aren't used to it."
Was that a threat?