CHAPTER 18
Quinn was staring at the same knot in the pine wood paneling when she heard the crunch of gravel outside.
The sound made her heart kick against her ribs—part anticipation, part dread.
She knew that sound. Had heard it twice a day, every day, for the past week.
The particular rattle of Dax’s truck taking the turn from the main road onto the long gravel driveway.
The way the engine noise changed as he slowed, navigating the ruts and potholes he kept meaning to fill but never did.
Thirty seconds, she’d learned. That’s how long it took from the first crunch of gravel to the sound of his boots on the porch steps.
Quinn counted in her head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
Her hands were clammy where they gripped the arm of the couch.
The worn fabric had a rough texture under her fingertips—she knew because she’d traced the pattern of it approximately eight thousand times in the past seven days.
This couch. This same spot. This same knot in the wood paneling directly across from her that looked vaguely like a screaming face if you stared at it long enough.
And Quinn had stared at it long enough.
Seven Mississippi. Eight Mississippi.
The cabin smelled like pine and dust and the faint lingering scent of the eggs she’d scrambled for breakfast. The same breakfast she’d eaten yesterday.
And the day before. And the day before that.
Because the groceries Dax brought followed the same rotation—eggs, bread, that pre-shredded cheese, the protein bars he thought she liked but really just tolerated because there was nothing else.
Fifteen Mississippi. Sixteen Mississippi.
Outside, a crow cawed. She’d counted forty-three trees from the living room window this morning. Logged it in the notebook she’d started keeping to track...what? Time? Her sanity? The slow erosion of her identity?
The truck engine cut off.
Quinn’s stomach dropped.
She didn’t move. Didn’t turn toward the door. Just kept staring at that knot in the wood, at the grain that swirled around it like water circling a drain.
Car door opening. The distinctive creak of the driver’s side—she knew that sound too.
Her heart was hammering now, her pulse loud in her ears.
Because she knew what was coming. Had known since this morning when she’d woken up at 6:47 AM—she knew the exact time because she’d been awake at 6:45, 6:46, every minute ticking by on the digital clock beside the bed—and realized she couldn’t do this anymore.
Couldn’t spend another day in this cabin.
Another hour.
Another minute.
Car door shutting. Footsteps on gravel.
Quinn’s throat was tight. Her chest felt like someone had wrapped bands of steel around it and was slowly tightening them, notch by notch, until she couldn’t expand her lungs fully.
She’d felt that way for three days now. Ever since Dax had casually mentioned at dinner that the trial had been pushed back.
Sixty more days.
On top of the four months she’d already been bracing herself for.
Six months total. Minimum.
One hundred and eighty days in this cabin.
Four thousand, three hundred and twenty hours.
Quinn had done the math. Had written it in her notebook with increasingly erratic handwriting because what else was there to do?
Boots on the porch steps now. One. Two. Three.
She knew there were seven steps. Had counted them. Had memorized the way the third one from the top creaked slightly to the left. Had catalogued every sound and sight and smell of this place until she could map it in her sleep.
Which she did. Frequently. Because even her dreams now took place in this cabin, these walls, this same couch and that same knot in the wood.
The doorknob turned.
Quinn’s hands tightened on the couch arm, her short nails digging into the fabric.
She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.
Could feel the tremor that had started in her hands that morning and hadn’t stopped—a fine vibration like she’d had too much coffee, except she’d only had one cup because that’s all Dax had brought yesterday and she was rationing it.
The door swung open.
“Hey,” Dax said, and she heard the grocery bags rustling—that plastic crinkle that meant he’d stopped at the store again, brought more food to keep her fed and alive and imprisoned.
Quinn didn’t turn around.
Couldn’t.
Because if she looked at him—if she saw his face, saw the concern and fear and love there—she might lose her nerve. Might let him talk her into staying. Into just a few more days, a few more weeks, just until it was safe.
Except it would never be safe. Not really.
“I brought food,” Dax continued, his voice carrying that careful cheerfulness he’d adopted somewhere around day four. Like if he pretended everything was normal, she’d believe it too. “Got those protein bars you like. And the good coffee.”
The protein bars tasted like cardboard dipped in chocolate. The “good coffee” was the same brand he always bought because he’d decided once that she liked it and had never asked again.
Quinn’s jaw ached. She realized she was clenching it. Had been clenching it so hard her temples throbbed.
She said nothing. Just kept staring at that knot. At the screaming face in the wood grain.
Footsteps moving through the cabin now. Heavy boots on hardwood. She could track his progress without looking—he’d walk through to the kitchen first, set down the groceries. Then he’d do his rounds.
Always the rounds.
Click. The front door deadbolt sliding home.
Quinn flinched at the sound, though she’d heard it every day. That metallic snick of the lock engaging. The sound of being sealed in.
More footsteps. Heavier now as he moved to the living room windows.
Click-click. The window latches being tested.
One by one.
Left window. Middle window. Right window.
Quinn could feel each sound like a physical thing. Like chains being wrapped around her, link by link.
The security panel beeped. Once. Twice. Three times as Dax tested it.
“Everything looks good,” he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice. Pride, even. Because the cabin was secure. Because he’d done his job. Because Quinn was safe in her pretty cage.
Her hands were shaking now. That fine tremor had spread up her arms, into her shoulders. She could feel it in her chest—this vibration of barely suppressed panic or rage or something she didn’t have a name for.
Plastic bags rustling in the kitchen. Dax unpacking the groceries with his usual efficiency.
Refrigerator door opening. Items being placed inside with careful precision—he’d organize them by type, she knew. Dairy on the top shelf. Vegetables in the crisper. Everything in its place.
Everything controlled.
Quinn’s breath was coming shorter now. Faster.
She’d counted her breaths this morning too. Lying in bed at 6:47 AM, staring at the ceiling, counting inhales and exhales because there was nothing else to count. Had gotten to three hundred and forty-two before she’d given up and gotten out of bed.
Three hundred and forty-two breaths.
And every single one had felt like it wasn’t quite enough. Like the air in this cabin was too thin. Too stale. Like she was slowly suffocating.
“Nathan checked in this morning,” Dax was saying, his voice carrying from the kitchen. “Clara and her kids are settled at the safe house. Torres says no suspicious activity.”
Quinn closed her eyes.
She could see Clara in her mind—that frightened woman who’d spent eleven years running. Eleven years looking over her shoulder. Eleven years of not being herself, not using her real name, not living a real life.
And now Clara was in another safe house. Under another agent’s watch. Still not free. Still hiding.
Was that Quinn’s future? Years of hiding? Years of safe houses and assumed names and counting knots in wood paneling?
“Wheeler’s ankle monitor shows he’s been at his house for the past forty-eight hours,” Dax continued.
He’d moved on to putting away the canned goods now—she could hear the soft thunk of cans being arranged in the cabinet.
“Hasn’t left except for meetings with his lawyer.
We’re monitoring his phone records, his finances.
If he so much as breathes wrong, we’ll know. ”
Breathes wrong.
Quinn wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream.
Wheeler was out there breathing. Living. Moving through the world. And she was here, counting his breaths for him through electronic monitoring reports.
The refrigerator closed. Dax was done organizing.
“Oh, and the DA’s office called,” he said, his tone shifting. Getting careful. “Trial date got pushed back. Feldman filed a motion for continuance. Judge granted sixty days.”
Something snapped inside Quinn’s chest.
Not broke. Snapped. Like a cord pulled too tight for too long, finally giving way.
She turned around.
Dax was standing in the kitchen, one hand still on the counter, and the look on his face told her he knew. Knew this was bad news. Knew she wouldn’t take it well.
But he’d told her anyway. Because it was his job to tell her. His responsibility to keep her informed about the case that was slowly consuming her life.
“Sixty days,” Quinn said.
Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was flat. Empty. Like something had hollowed her out and this was just the shell speaking.
Dax’s hand fell away from the counter. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I know you were hoping—”
“Sixty days.” Quinn stood up from the couch, and her legs were stiff. She’d been sitting in that same spot for how long? Two hours? Three? She’d lost track.
She’d lost track of time.
That’s what this place did. Made time meaningless. Made everything meaningless except the slow tick of the clock and the rotation of meals and the check-check-check of locks and windows.
“So instead of four months until trial,” Quinn continued, her voice still flat, still not her own, “it’s now six months. Minimum.”
“Quinn—”
“You expect me to stay here for six more months?”
And now her voice was coming back. Rising. Getting louder. “Half a year in this cabin? Half a year of staring at these walls?”