Chapter 3
Ashley
I lock my motel door the second I step inside and lean my forehead against the wood, breathing hard.
The room is small but clean. Beige walls. A bed with a stiff-looking comforter. A little table with a lamp that hums faintly when I turn it on. It's not home, but it seems like a safe place to sleep for the night.
Still, I double check the locks.
Did Brandon follow me? Does he know I’m here?
I drop my bag on the chair and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone.
No missed calls.
No new messages.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, my thoughts keep circling back to the same thing. Officer Kavanaugh standing in the lobby, calm and solid. Like if anything went wrong, he would handle it.
And I believe he would.
That realization both comforts and unsettles me.
I kick off my shoes and pace the room, checking the window, the lock, and glancing out at the parking lot outside. My car sits under the flickering light, and there’s also a camera affixed to the pole. Good.
I brought the duffel bag inside, but all my other possessions are in the car, and I hate the idea of Brandon or anyone else rooting through them. The light and the surveillance camera should be a deterrent.
I pull the curtains closed.
A knock sounds at the door.
Every muscle in my body locks. I don't move. I barely breathe.
The knock comes again, firmer this time.
"Ashley," a male voice says quietly. "It's Ross. Officer Kavanaugh."
Relief and nerves collide so hard my knees feel weak.
I approach the door and glance through the peephole. It's him. Same uniform. Same steady presence. I don’t see anyone else lurking behind him.
I unlock the door and open it just enough to see his face.
"Yes?"
"I wanted to check on you before I finished my patrol," he says. His tone is calm, professional. "You okay?"
I nod. "I think so."
“Good.” He glances past me into the room, not intrusive, just aware. He hesitates, then adds, "Mind if I step in for a moment? I want to go over a few safety things."
"Okay."
He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
Not in a threatening way—in a way that makes me hyperaware of how broad his shoulders are, how his presence seems to fill every corner.
He doesn't touch anything. Doesn't move closer than necessary.
But I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and musky—and I have to focus on his words instead of the way his uniform fits.
"Keep the door locked," he says. "Chain too. If anyone knocks who you're not expecting, you don't answer. Call the front desk or the station."
I nod again. "I will."
He studies my face, and something in his expression softens. "You don't look like someone who scares easily."
I let out a quiet laugh. "I didn't used to."
"What changed?"
The question is gentle. No pressure. Still, my mouth goes dry.
"I trusted the wrong person,” I say. "And when I realized it, I left."
"You’re strong,” he says, matter-of-factly.
The certainty in his voice makes something in my chest loosen.
A memory flashes through my mind. I’m standing in front of my closet six months ago, hands shaking as I put back the red dress I wanted to wear and pulled out a beige one instead. "You look better in muted colors," Brandon had said that morning. "You don't want people getting the wrong idea."
I'd worn beige for six months straight. Until two days ago, when I threw every beige piece of clothing into a donation bin and drove away.
Ross is still watching me, patient, like he has all the time in the world.
"I always thought I was strong, but Brandon made me feel weak.” I laugh bitterly.
“He threw away a book I was reading once.
It was just a library book about hiking the Appalachian Trail.
I'd been dreaming about doing it, and he just threw it away.
Like my dreams were trash. Said I was a fool for thinking I could do it in the first place. "
Ross's jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle. "Hiking the Appalachian Trail is an admirable goal. What made you want to hike it?"
The question surprises me. No one ever asked. Brandon certainly never did.
"My dad used to talk about doing it together. Before he died." I look down at my hands. "I know it sounds stupid—"
"It doesn't," Ross interrupts. "My mom wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Never made it. Sometimes I think about going for her."
Our eyes meet, and something clicks into place. Not just attraction. Recognition.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small card, setting it on the table. "That's the station number. My name's on it too."
"I know," I say, then I feel my face warm. "Your name, I mean. From your uniform."
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "Right."
Silence settles between us, not awkward, just heavy with things unsaid.
"I won't stay long," he says. "I just wanted you to know I'm nearby tonight."
"Thank you," I say. "For earlier. For now. For everything."
He meets my gaze, and for a moment, the air between us pulls tight and electric, like the space is charged.
"You're welcome," he says quietly, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher.
He turns toward the door, then pauses, hand on the knob. For a moment, I think he's going to say something else. His jaw works like he's wrestling with words. Instead, he just looks at me for a long moment, and the intensity in those gray eyes makes my breath catch.
"Ashley," he finally says.
"Yes?" It comes out barely above a whisper.
"If you need help, you call. No matter the time." His eyes drop briefly to my mouth before snapping back up. "For anything."
The weight of that last word hangs in the air between us.
"I will," I promise.
He nods once and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I lock it again and slide down until my back rests against the wood.
My heart is racing, but not from fear this time.
I lie awake long after the motel settles, listening to the hum of the heater and the occasional car passing on the road. My phone rests on the nightstand, screen dark but close enough to reach.
I tell myself I'm safe.
When sleep finally comes, it brings dreams of gray eyes and a steady voice. Of strong hands and a southern drawl telling me I'm not in trouble.
And for the first time in a long time, I almost believe it.