Chapter 46 Silas
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Silas
Delaney is at the table when I come into the kitchen.
She’s sitting with both hands wrapped around a mug as if it’s an anchor. Steam curls up past her face, and she stares into the coffee as if waiting for answers.
She looks… composed.
Which is somehow worse than if she was in a state of panic.
She doesn’t flinch when I enter, but her eyes lift immediately.
Boone’s absence hangs in the room. No boots by the door. No low voice reminding Sadie about her backpack.
I nod toward the window. “Boone’s on the school run?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I heard the truck.”
She takes a slow sip of coffee. Sets the mug down carefully. Too carefully.
I don’t rush her.
I lean against the counter, folding my arms. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she replies. This one lands steadier.
Silence stretches.
She looks down at the mug again, thumb tracing the rim. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head.
Finally, she exhales.
“If I don’t go now,” she says quietly, “I won’t.”
There it is.
I don’t move. Don’t reach for my keys. This has to be her decision.
She lifts her gaze to me. There’s fear there, yeah, but there’s resolve too. A thin, bright line of it.
“Will you take me? To the police station, I mean.”
“Yeah,” I say instantly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She nods once, decisive now. Pushes the chair back and stands.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I grab my keys then, heart thudding harder than I want to admit.
Caleb appears in the doorway. Already dressed. Already steady. The man is built for emotional scaffolding.
“You want company?” he asks her.
She hesitates. “Silas is good. I know there’s always a lot to do here too.”
Caleb studies her face, then looks at me.
That look says: This is not a joke day.
I nod once.
“I’ll be here,” Caleb tells her. “Call if you need anything.”
She nods, eyes softening. “I will.”
And just like that, she’s trusting us with something fragile.
No pressure or anything.
The drive into town is quiet.
I keep the radio off because noise would be wrong. Her leg bounces, foot tapping in uneven beats like her body’s trying to escape without her permission.
I don’t fill the silence.
Halfway down the road, she says, “What if he’s still in town?”
My hands tighten on the wheel.
“He won’t be,” I say. “And if he is, we leave.”
She nods, but her jaw stays locked.
“Delaney,” I add gently, “you don’t owe him bravery. You don’t owe anyone composure.”
Her eyes flick to me, then away. “I just don’t want to be stupid again.”
I don’t say you weren’t stupid, because people who’ve been manipulated never believe that right away.
Instead, I say, “You’re here. You’re doing this. That’s not stupid.”
She swallows.
The police station comes into view. Small, unassuming, trying very hard not to scare anyone.
She freezes.
I don’t rush her.
Finally, she exhales. “Okay.”
We go in.
Deputy Kurt Morgan is exactly who you want in this situation.
No ego. No posturing. No sir or ma’am nonsense. Just calm eyes and a voice that doesn’t rush.
He takes us into an interview room and tells us to sit where we want.
Delaney perches on the edge of the chair as if flight is still an option.
I sit beside her.
She starts talking about Savannah giving her the number, about thinking it was a job, about the café.
Her voice wobbles only once, when she says his name.
Morgan’s eyes narrow just slightly.
She tells him about the messages. About how Marcus framed everything as an opportunity, a favor. As if she should be grateful he still wanted her. She even goes back in time, telling him all the details of why she left New York in the first place.
I feel my jaw lock.
Then she tells him about Main Street, about saying no, about his hand on her arm, and the threats that came with it, before Boone interjected.
Morgan doesn’t interrupt. He writes and asks clarifying questions, treating her as a reliable narrator of her own damn life.
When she hands over her phone, her hands shake.
I hold my breath until Morgan nods and says, “These help.”
That one sentence does something to her. I see it. Her shoulders drop a fraction.
When Morgan explains the next steps—documentation, a report, a possible restraining order—Delaney flinches.
“I don’t want this to turn into a whole drama,” she says quietly.
Morgan meets her eyes. “You’re not making it a drama. You’re naming it.”
She nods.
Signs the statement.
When it’s done, she looks wrung out. Someone turned her inside out and didn’t bother putting everything back where it goes.
Morgan stands. “If he shows up again, you call. Immediately.”
He looks at me. “Make sure she’s not alone.”
“Already covered,” I say.
Outside, the light feels too bright. Delaney scans the street as if danger might materialize out of thin air if she lets her guard down for even a second. I unlock the truck, and she hesitates before getting in, fingers hovering over the door handle.
“I hate this,” she whispers, the words barely making it past her teeth.
“I know,” I reply, because pretending otherwise would be a lie neither of us needs.
She grips the edge of the seat once she’s inside, knuckles whitening as she stares straight ahead. “What if it doesn’t help?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “It might not fix everything,” I tell her evenly. “But it makes it harder for him to pretend.”
She nods, swallowing, and finally pulls the door shut.
On the drive back, she keeps checking the mirrors, shoulders tight, eyes darting in quick, practiced movements. She’s jumpy. Not fragile—alert. Her nervous system hasn’t gotten the memo that she’s not under threat this second, and every passing car is something to be cataloged and assessed.
When the ranch finally comes into view, she exhales. She’s been holding her breath for miles, even though the tension doesn’t fully leave her body.
Caleb’s waiting when we pull in, and one look at her face tells him everything he needs to know.
“How’d it go?” he asks quietly, careful with the space between words.
She opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out, so I step in. “We filed. Kurt’s handling it.”
Caleb nods, accepting that without pushing for details, because that’s who he is.
Delaney heads down the hall fast, retreating to her room because it’s the only place with walls thick enough to breathe behind, and the door closes softly but decisively.
I lean back against the counter and scrub a hand down my face while Caleb keeps his gaze on the hallway.
“She’s scared,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer, because there’s no point pretending otherwise. “And right now, I think we need to remind Delaney that this is a safe place, and that we’re here for her, no matter what.”
“Oh yeah?” Caleb cocks a brow. “What do you have in mind?”