Chapter 9
NINE
EMMA
“…she walked onto the ridge like she had a map in her head,” Silas is saying.
Rhett’s voice follows—deep, tight, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. “She had a note.”
“A note with two words doesn’t get you past patrol patterns,” Silas counters.
Then my stomach drops through the floor.
“Rhett… her phone has an encrypted messaging app installed.”
I press my palm to the wall, suddenly dizzy, as if the cabin tilted.
Rhett says something I can’t hear clearly—his voice is too low, too controlled—but I catch the edge of anger in it.
Silas again, harder this time: “There’s a pinned location. Coordinates. On her phone. Dated weeks ago.”
Weeks.
My throat tightens.
I want to walk in. I want to blurt out the truth. I want to say I’m not the enemy, I’m just desperate, please don’t look at me like I’m a threat.
But the problem is… I am hiding something. And I can’t tell them. Not yet. Not when I don’t even know who to trust outside these walls. Not when my sister’s life might depend on the wrong information staying locked in my mouth.
Silas’s voice cuts through again: “How does a civilian get a pin drop on Haven 7 weeks before she shows up?”
Silence.
Then Rhett—rougher, like something is cracking in him. “She’s not lying.”
Silas doesn’t soften. “You don’t know that.”
My eyes sting, and it pisses me off because I hate crying. I hate being the girl with tears. But I also hate this—standing in a hallway listening to the man I… I don’t even know what to call it—want? trust? crave?—get questioned about whether I’m real.
Because if Rhett looks at me and sees a threat… then maybe I really am alone again.
I step back from the wall and force my legs to move, one quiet step at a time, until I’m around the corner and out of earshot. My heart pounds like I ran a mile. I press a hand to my chest and try to breathe.
Okay. Think. Don’t spiral. If I stay, they’ll confront me. If they confront me, I either tell them everything… or I lie to their faces. And I can’t do either without risking Mia. So I do the one thing I’ve always done when fear corners me.
I run.
Except this time, it’s not because I’m weak. It’s because I have a plan. And because I can’t let Rhett see the truth in my eyes before I’m ready to explain it. I walk quickly down the hall toward Rhett’s exit, trying to look normal. Like I’m not about to make a spectacularly terrible decision.
There’s nobody in the corridor—most of the men are still in the meeting room, and Harper and Kayley are in the common area with the babies. The compound is busy in the way busy hides things.
I head toward Rhett’s cabin once I’m outside.
I slip into his cabin like a shadow and lock the door behind me, hands shaking.
My bag is where I left it—by the couch. I shove my phone, charger, and wallet inside.
I don’t take much. I don’t have time. I don’t want to leave evidence of panic.
Because if Rhett comes back and sees the bed untouched and my things missing, he’ll know immediately.
He’ll chase me. And that thought makes my chest ache in a way that’s almost unbearable. Because the stupid thing is… I don’t want him to chase me.
I want him to trust me. I want him to look at me like I’m not a problem to solve. I want—
No. Stop.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and stand in the living room for one second, staring at the couch where he slept. The place where he looked too big for the cushions and still stayed there anyway because he wanted me to feel safe.
My throat tightens. “I thought we had something,” I whisper into the empty cabin, like the walls might answer. Then I move. I wait until I hear distant laughter from the lodge—Chase’s voice, Boyd’s low rumble—and I slip out the back, cutting through the trees the way I came in.
The mountain air hits my lungs like ice. I don’t stop. I walk fast, then faster, then I’m practically jogging down the packed snow trail toward the road. And as I go, my mind replays the truth I can’t say out loud. The reason I came here isn’t just because Mia left a note.
It’s because my father did.
My dad—Frank Lincoln—was a quiet man with tired eyes and a laugh that came easy until it didn’t. He served. Not in the flashy, movie kind of way. In the real way. The kind that leaves you with scars no one sees.
When I was a kid, he told me bedtime stories that sounded like adventure. When I got older, I realized they weren’t stories at all. They were memories he softened for me so I wouldn’t be afraid of the world.
He never talked about his team much. But once—only once—when I was in college and called him crying because a guy followed me to my car, he got very still.
He said, “Listen to me, Emma. I’m going to tell you something I never want you to need.”
I remember sitting on my bed, tears drying on my cheeks, the phone pressed tight to my ear.
He said, “If you ever get in trouble—real trouble—and you can’t trust the cops… you find Haven 7.”
I laughed through my sniffles. “Is that a church?”
He didn’t laugh back. “It’s men,” he said. “Good men. The kind who don’t look away. The kind who don’t quit.”
Then he sent me a pin. Coordinates. And he made me swear I’d never use it unless I had no other choice.
I swore. And then I forgot, because life moved on and my dad got sick and the world got louder and grief changes the way you remember things.
Until Mia started dating Mark Renshaw. And my gut screamed.
My sister’s texts got shorter and her smile got thinner and she started flinching when her phone lit up. And then, she went missing.
I remembered my father’s voice like it was a lifeline.
If you can’t trust the cops… you find Haven 7.
Mark is a cop. And Mia was in too deep. So I used the pin. And I didn’t tell anyone because if Mark really is tied into something bigger… then telling the wrong person the wrong detail could get Mia killed.
I reach the bottom road and spot a lone vehicle in the distance. A truck. My pulse spikes, and I freeze, scanning the tree line. But it keeps going. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. I let out a breath and keep moving. Down the mountain. Toward town.
Toward answers I probably won’t like.
Timber Creek is small and quiet in that postcard way—strings of lights over storefronts, snow piled on sidewalks, a few people bundled up and moving slowly like winter gives you permission to take your time.
I walk like the opposite. My nerves buzz under my skin, every sound too loud, every passing car making my stomach twist.
I find a diner on the corner that looks like it’s been here forever—warm windows, a neon sign that flickers slightly, the smell of coffee slipping out every time the door opens.
I step inside and heat hits me like mercy. A bell jingles overhead. The diner is half-full—locals in flannels, a couple teenagers sharing fries, an older man reading the paper like it’s 1997. The air smells like bacon grease and cinnamon and comfort.
A waitress spots me immediately. She’s kind, with amber-colored hair in a bun and a smile that looks practiced but not fake. Her name tag says GRETA in bold letters.
Honey-colored eyes take me in—my snow-damp coat, my messy hair, my face that probably screams I have made questionable choices.
“Sweetheart,” she says, voice gentle. “You look like you’ve had a day.”
I swallow, throat tight. “You have no idea.”
She nods like she does, though. Like she’s seen every kind of trouble walk through this door. “Sit anywhere,” she says. “I’ll bring coffee.”
I slide into a booth near the window, back to the wall without thinking. Old habit. Safety habit. Trauma habit.
The coffee arrives fast. Black, steaming. Greta sets it down and studies me for a beat. “You waiting on someone?” she asks.
I hesitate, then shake my head. “No.”
“That a lie?” she asks, not accusing. Just… seeing.
My chest aches. I stare down at the coffee. “I don’t know.”
Greta’s expression softens. “Mm. That kind of trouble.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Is there another kind?”
She gives me a look. “There’s the kind you can fix with a good meal. And the kind that needs more than pancakes.”
I look up, startled by how much I want to talk to her. It’s ridiculous. I don’t know this woman. She could be anyone. But her eyes are kind. And kindness feels like oxygen when you’re drowning.
“My sister is missing,” I say quietly.
Greta’s face changes instantly—serious, steady. “Oh, honey.”
“And I thought I found help,” I add, my voice cracking. “But maybe… maybe they don’t trust me.”
Greta reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a little ticket. She scribbles something, then sets it beside my coffee.
I blink. “What’s that?”
“Pie,” she says simply. “Apple. On me. Because you look like you need sugar and hope.”
My throat tightens. “I can pay.”
“No,” she says firmly. “You can sit here as long as you need. And you can breathe.”
I stare at her, my eyes burning. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Greta pats the table once. “Eat your pie. Then decide your next move when you can think straight.” She scribbles something else on a different piece of paper. “My phone number,” she says as she slides the paper in my direction. She walks away, and I stare after her like she’s a miracle in an apron.
The pie comes. It’s warm and sweet and makes my chest ache because it tastes like childhood and safety and a life before everything went wrong.
I take one bite. And for one minute, I let myself grieve.
Not just for Mia. For me. For the stupid way I thought I could walk into Haven 7 and make everything better without telling the truth.
For the way Rhett looked at me this morning—soft, almost trusting—before it all went sideways.
For the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m already falling for a man who might think I’m a liar.
I press my fingers to my eyes and breathe. When I’m done, I slide out of the booth and head for the door, my bag heavy on my shoulder.
Greta catches my eye from behind the counter. “You be careful,” she says.
I nod, forcing a smile. “I’ll try.”
The bell jingles as I step outside. The cold hits hard. Snowflakes drift down under the streetlights, slow and quiet.
I take three steps onto the sidewalk— and a hand clamps around my arm. My blood turns to ice. I whip around, ready to scream. But the man behind me isn’t a stranger. He’s clean-cut and familiar, wearing a winter coat like a costume, eyes too calm for how fast my heart is racing.
Mark Renshaw.
The cop.
Mia’s cop.
His smile is polite, practiced—the kind he probably used in courtrooms and traffic stops. The kind that makes your skin crawl when you finally see what’s underneath it.
“Emma,” he says, like we’re old friends. “You’ve been causing a lot of noise.”
My throat locks. “Let go of me,” I whisper.
Mark’s grip tightens. “Come on. Don’t make a scene.”
My pulse spikes. I glance toward the diner window—Greta is wiping the counter, her head turned away.
The street is quiet.
Mark leans in, voice low. “You really thought you could run to your daddy’s little friends and hide?”
My stomach drops.
He knows.
He knows about the pin.
I jerk back, adrenaline surging. “How—”
“Shh.” Mark’s smile widens, but it’s not friendly now. It’s sharp. “You should’ve stayed on the mountain.”
I open my mouth to scream, but a van door slides open behind me. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth. I bite. Hard. The hand jerks, but another arm hooks around my waist and hauls me backward like I weigh nothing.
My scream turns into a muffled, furious sound against the glove.
Mark’s eyes stay on mine as they drag me toward the van. “I bet you wish you could tell Rhett,” he says softly, almost amused, “that he should’ve listened to Silas.”
Then they shove me inside. The door slams. The world becomes darkness and motion and the sick realization that I didn’t just make a mistake.
I walked straight into his hands. And now Rhett is going to come for me. He has to. Because I can’t do this alone.
Not anymore.