Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
She was still there.
Kenna’s Rivian was back where it had been this morning. Same side street, same angle, and she sat in the front seat watching the comings and goings of the apartment complex like she’d simply decided the neighborhood belonged to her now.
I pulled into my spot, killed the engine, and sat for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel. Between the rescue drop-off, the inevitable guilt of leaving Rogue behind, and now this, my patience was worn thin and was beginning to feel brittle.
I got out of the car without looking her way.
No point in confirming that I knew she was there.
That would only give fodder to her suspicions.
I winced as I thought about her sitting at that red light, watching me drive away, how that would only have confirmed for her that I was trained to shake a tail.
This whole day had been a mistake, my logic overtaken by the surprise of seeing her sitting there this morning. While I’d meant to get rid of her, I’d probably only confirmed her suspicion that there was something off about me. Something worth watching.
I could feel her attention like heat on the back of my neck as I got out of my car and headed towards my apartment. I didn’t need to see her to know she was watching, cataloging my movements, deciding what story she wanted to tell herself about me.
Inside, I locked the door and leaned my forehead briefly against the wood.
I understood why she didn’t trust me. Hell, I didn’t trust myself some days.
I’d tripped up while giving my own name, after all.
And I’d tackled a man in front of her less than twenty-four hours ago, taken him down hard enough that the sound of it still echoed in my bones.
To her, that wouldn’t read as instinct or luck.
It was training, plain and simple.
As I showered off the sweat of my hike, I wondered what story I could spin for her that would explain my training but ease her mind.
I came out of the shower with more frustration than answers, though, and as I heated up the last frozen burrito I realized that my fridge was basically empty.
Even the last of my string cheese was gone.
All I had left was an old orange that I knew I wasn’t actually going to eat.
Running a hand through my still-damp hair, I turned to my rack of clothing, frowning at what few choices I had.
Just like my empty fridge, the number of clean clothes I had on hand was dwindling.
Pulling the last clean shirt off its hanger, I squared my shoulders and made a decision.
If I was going to adopt this name and this life, that meant investing in things.
Investing in myself. It was time to get some new clothes; ones that felt like me rather than pants and shirts that simply functioned to keep others from noticing me.
As I headed back out the front door, I was unsurprised to find that Kenna remained parked across the street, still watching.
Still waiting for me to trip up and reveal something to her that would tell her who I really was.
Pulling out of the parking lot once again, I watched her follow in my rearview mirror and my irritation settled into something sharper.
Focused. If Kenna Scott wanted to watch me live my perfectly boring, legally unremarkable life, she was welcome to the show.
The thrift shop was quiet when I stepped inside, the bell over the door jangling softly behind me. Racks of clothing crowded the space, everything faintly smelling of detergent and time. I moved slowly, fingers brushing fabric as I sorted things into mental piles of useful and forgettable.
Everything I owned now came from a rushed stop in Colorado. Neutral colors. Practical cuts. Clothes meant not to be remembered. They reminded me too much of running.
I counted my tips in my head as I browsed, doing the math as I went. Gathering clothing that made me feel like myself, rather than like I was a criminal still living on the run. It wasn’t much but changing the story my clothes were telling was another step closer to that story becoming the truth.
Thirty minutes later I paid in cash and left with a paper bag heavy against my leg.
I hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but there was something lighter in my step as I walked back to my car.
A black skirt. Pinstripe slacks. A cream cardigan soft enough to feel indulgent.
Two button-up shirts that looked like they belonged to someone who had their life together.
And a heather gray T-shirt with a cartoon cat batting at a ball of yarn.
Here To Complicate Things, it read in bright yellow letters.
I smiled despite myself when I saw it.
Before heading home, I ducked into the outdoor shop next door.
I quickly found a pair of practical boots—sturdy, unflashy, priced just high enough that I hesitated before committing.
I tried them on, laced and unlaced them carefully.
Considered going back to the thrift store and buying something secondhand before deciding that would only lead to blisters in my future.
Remembered how it felt to be out on the trail and decided they were worth the price.
“Good choice,” the cashier said as he scanned them. “You hike much?”
“Getting into it,” I replied, and was surprised to find it was true. Hiking wasn’t a requirement for my cover story, but it was something that Avery McHale had never bothered with. Something that felt like it was entirely mine.
“Well, you picked the right place.” He rattled off a few local trails without prompting; loops along the river, places people went when they weren’t trying to prove anything. I filed the names away, grateful for the easy conversation, the way it didn’t ask anything of me.
But even as I made small talk, I found myself leading the conversation towards the hikes South of Bend.
Of Benham Falls and Good Dog Trail. The cashier either didn’t know or didn’t care about the hand that had been found but had plenty to say about the Deschutes River Trail, which ran for over 16 miles along the river and connected all the other trails I had mentioned.
Which meant two things; that if I hadn’t decided to stop at two miles I could have wandered much farther up the trail than I realized, and that Lexi Tate absolutely could have started her hike at Good Dog Trail and made it all the way down to the Benham Falls Trailhead before she vanished.
And depending on Lexi’s physical fitness, skill, and luck, she absolutely could have vanished anywhere along that eight mile stretch of trail.
By the time I left, I had more information, but I was no closer to finding an answer.
Still, the morning almost felt normal. Or, it would have if there wasn’t an SUV attempting to be inconspicuous as it followed me home.
I didn’t bother with any TEVOC stunts or think too hard about what Kenna might make of my shopping trip.
As nervous as her careful attention made me, I had realized after several days of being followed that there was nothing I could do about it.
But there was also nothing she could do.
She knew not to trust me, that I wasn’t who I said I was, but beyond that she had no way of connecting me to my past.
The calm I had gained from that realization broke the moment I opened my apartment door.
The smell hit first—stale cigarette smoke, thick enough to taste.
I froze in the doorway, my body reacting before my mind caught up.
I scanned the apartment quickly. Nothing looked disturbed.
My bed was unmade the way I’d left it. The case files were still on the floor. No drawers open, no doors ajar.
The bathroom door was closed.
I couldn’t remember closing it.
My pulse ticked up as I crossed the room, every step careful. I reached for the knob, acutely aware of the absence of a weapon, of how much I’d taken for granted the familiar weight of one at my side.
I swung the door open, but the bathroom was empty.
Relief came first, sharp and humiliating.
Then the smell followed after, worse now that the bathroom door was open, clinging to tile and walls alike.
I backed out, opened the window above my bed, flipped on the fan, irritation burning hotter than the fear had.
My upstairs neighbors must have decided to switch from smoking weed in their bathroom to smoking cigars and the smell had drifted in through my vents.
Disgusting, and now not only was my private space unusable until I could get it aired out, but my senses were on high alert due to the unnecessary paranoia the smoke had triggered.
Frustrated both at the situation and my own inability to shake the feeling that this was more than the result of an inconsiderate neighbor, I grabbed the case files I’d made for Monica’s murder and Shepherd’s FBI career and left without bothering to close the window.
Locking the door behind me, I glared up at the apartment above mine like that might accomplish something and left before I could do something stupid like confront my neighbors and cause a scene.
I drove without thinking, letting the car take me anywhere that wasn’t there.
When I finally pulled into a parking lot and shut off the engine, I was so preoccupied with noticing that Kenna had left in the few minutes between when I entered my apartment and when I left, that it took me a moment to recognize where I was.
Street Dog Hero.
I sat there for a long time with my hands in my lap, the paper bag of clothes on the passenger seat, the boots still in their box.
I tried to talk myself out of it. Listed all the reasons it wasn’t a good idea.
Practical concerns like financial strain, and the way my life could still fracture without warning.
None of it worked.
All I could think about was big brown eyes peering out between metal bars and a crooked tail drooped against a concrete floor. The words we need each other rang in my mind over and over again as I stared at the building where Rogue was currently being held.
He needed someone to take a chance on him, to pay attention and be patient enough to figure out what worked and what didn’t. And if someone was stalking me, getting into my apartment, I needed a little help myself. Getting Rogue meant putting down roots, and it meant that I wasn’t running anymore.
I smiled as I thought about how much a dog like Rogue probably enjoyed running and how I might enjoy my workouts more if I were racing against a dog rather than pushing myself to beat my own time.
Even our downtime would be better if we had each other, curled up on my bed in the privacy of my studio apartment, away from a world that didn’t understand either of us and labeled us dangerous without bothering to pause and wonder if there might be some other reason for lashing out or running away.
That thought sealed the deal, and even as I climbed out of the car, a different doubt began to creep in.
What if someone else already has him? I couldn’t stand the thought of it, and I hurried towards the door.
Now that I had decided to make this change for both of us, I hated the feeling of every second that I couldn’t call him mine.
“I want him,” I said as soon as I stepped inside. Olivia looked up from the counter, startled. I took a breath. “Rogue. I want to adopt Rogue.”
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “You can’t?—”
The words hit me like a blow to the gut, knocking the buzz of excitement and the air right out of me even as she continued. “Not right away. We require a foster period first. Just to make sure it’s a good fit.”
“I can do that,” I told her without hesitation, relieved that that was the only thing standing in my way. “Whatever you need.”
Her smile was immediate and bright. “Well then, let’s get you started.”