Chapter 1
one
. . .
Willow Thompson
I lock the front door of the bakery and flip the sign to Closed.
The last customer left twenty minutes ago, and the place is finally quiet.
Flour still dusts the counter in soft white patches.
The ovens are cooling, ticking softly as the heat fades.
I wipe the same spot on the counter twice because my hands need something to do.
Seven months.
That’s how long it’s been since the crash.
Seven months since I woke up in a hospital bed with my left side on fire and learned my parents and my little brother were gone.
Seven months of a new city, a new last name, and the same nightmare that still makes me reach across an empty bed for people who aren’t there anymore.
I’m doing okay. Mostly. I show up to work every morning.
I smile at the regulars. I even laugh sometimes when the older woman who orders the same blueberry muffin every Tuesday tells me the same joke about her cat.
But the scars on my hip and thigh still hide under jeans and long shirts, and lately the back of my neck has been prickling like someone’s watching me.
I tell myself it’s leftover paranoia. Trauma does weird things to your brain. Still, I glance out the front window one more time before I shut off the lights.
The street is quiet. A few cars pass. The streetlight across from the bakery flickers the way it always does. Nothing looks different. I turn away and start wiping down the display case, forcing my shoulders to relax.
I’m happy-ish. That’s the word I’ve settled on.
Not happy. Not broken. Somewhere in the middle where I can function and sometimes even forget for whole hours at a time.
I rent the tiny apartment above the bakery.
I keep the rent low by helping with early morning prep.
I don’t make friends. I don’t date. I keep my head down and try to build something quiet enough that the past can’t find me.
It almost works.
Almost.
I finish the display case and move to the espresso machine, wiping every surface even though it’s already clean.
The silence presses in. I hate the silence more than anything.
Silence leaves too much room for the memories to crawl back in—the sound of metal screaming, the way the world flipped, the silence after that was so much worse.
I shake my head hard and toss the rag into the sink. Time to go upstairs, heat up whatever’s left in the fridge, and pretend I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I reach for the light switch.
That’s when I see it.
A black SUV is parked across the street. It wasn’t there a minute ago. The windows are tinted dark. The engine is still running. My hand freezes on the switch.
The driver’s door opens.
A tall man steps out.
Broad shoulders. Black t-shirt stretched tight across a chest that looks solid as hell. Short blond hair that catches the streetlight. Hard jaw. He looks straight at the bakery like he already knows I’m inside. Like he’s been waiting.
My stomach drops so hard I feel it in my knees.
He crosses the street without rushing. Every step is controlled, measured, like he has all the time in the world and none of the doubt. When he reaches the glass door, he doesn’t knock. He just stands there, eyes locked on me through the window.
I should call the police. My phone is in my back pocket. I can feel the weight of it. Instead, I unlock the door because something in the way he stands there feels inevitable, and my hands are already moving before my brain catches up.
He steps inside. The space suddenly feels smaller, though it has less to do with his size than the way he fills a room just by deciding to be calm in it. His eyes are a sharp blue-gray that don’t blink as they take me in from head to toe. I feel every inch of the once-over like a physical touch.
He pulls a badge from his back pocket and holds it up between two fingers.
“Willow. I’m Agent Wolfe. Pack a bag. You’re coming with me.”
My real name. Not the one I’ve been using for seven months. The name I left behind with the hospital bracelets and the funeral that happened while I was still too drugged to attend. My pulse kicks hard against my throat.
“How do you know that name?”
“Because the people who killed your family know it too.” His voice is low and rough, like gravel dragged over concrete. “They’re already in the area. I’m not here to debate this with you.”
I take a step back. My hip bumps the counter. The edge digs into the scar under my jeans and I flinch before I can stop it. “I’ve built a life here. I’m not leaving again.”
“You don’t have a life here.” He puts the badge away without looking at it.
“You have a temporary name and a job that doesn’t ask questions.
Your father took evidence from Michaelson.
Before he died, he told us he'd made a second copy and hidden it somewhere safe. Michaelson believes you know where it is. I believe you when you say you don't. Michaelson doesn't. I’m the only reason they haven’t found you yet.”
Heat climbs up my neck. Part fear. Part something else I don’t want to name.
He’s standing close enough that I can smell clean soap and something darker underneath—gun oil maybe, or just the scent of a man who’s spent years doing hard things.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second when I open it to argue again.
“I didn’t ask for a bodyguard.”
“Good. Because I’m not asking either.” He leans in just enough that I have to tip my head back to keep looking at him, utterly unbothered by my glare. I feel small in a way that should piss me off. Instead it makes my stomach flip.
“Pack a bag, Willow. You’ve got ten minutes.”
I should tell him to get the hell out. The words are right there. Instead I find myself watching how still he stands, like nothing about this rattles him at all. Like arguing with a woman clutching a duffel bag is just another Tuesday. I look away fast, heat climbing into my cheeks.
“This is insane.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften. “But you’re still coming with me.”
I stare at him for another long second. The prickling on the back of my neck is gone. Replaced by the heavy awareness of how completely in control he is and how little space he’s leaving between us. My heart is slamming so hard I’m half convinced he can hear it.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.” His answer is immediate. Honest. “But you should trust that the people hunting you don’t give a shit about your new name or your quiet little life. They only care that you’re still breathing.”
The truth of it lands like a punch. I’ve felt watched for weeks. I told myself it was nothing. I was wrong.
I turn and walk toward the back before I can talk myself out of it. My hands are shaking when I grab my purse from the hook by the office door. The stairs to the apartment above the bakery feel steeper than usual. I take them two at a time, heart still racing.
The apartment is small. One room, basically. Bed in the corner. Tiny kitchen. Bathroom that barely fits a shower. I’ve lived here for five of the seven months and it still doesn’t feel like mine. I never fully unpacked. Part of me always knew I might have to run again.
I yank open the dresser and start throwing clothes into the duffel bag I keep under the bed.
Jeans. Soft tees. Underwear. The one dress I own that actually fits my curves without making me feel exposed.
I grab the small wooden box from the top drawer—the only thing I kept from before.
Inside are three photos I never look at and the thin gold bracelet my little brother saved up to buy me for my sixteenth birthday.
Underneath the photos is Mom's battered recipe book wrapped in an old dish towel.
I don't open it. I haven't been able to since the crash.
I shove the box into the bag and zip it closed.
When I come back down, he’s still standing in the same spot near the front window, watching the street like he’s already planning an exit route. His posture is relaxed but I can see the tension in his shoulders. He’s ready for something. Ready for someone.
He takes the bag from my hand without asking. His fingers brush mine. Warm. Rough. Calloused. The contact is brief but it shoots straight up my arm.
“Let’s go.”
I follow him to the SUV because every other option feels worse. He opens the passenger door and waits until I’m inside before he closes it. The click of the lock sounds final. The interior smells like leather and him.
He climbs in, starts the engine, and pulls away from the curb without another word. The city lights blur past the window. My heart is still hammering. I keep my hands locked together in my lap so he can’t see them shake.
After a few minutes of silence, I glance at him. His profile is all hard lines and calm control, like nothing about this drive costs him anything. One hand on the wheel, steady despite everything. The other rests on his thigh, unhurried. I force my eyes back to the window.
“Where are we going?”
“Silver Lake. I’ve got a cabin up in the mountains. Remote enough that no one finds us unless I want them to.”
I swallow. The heat from earlier is still sitting low in my stomach. I press my thighs together and stare at the dark road ahead instead of watching the easy, unbothered way he handles the wheel.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glances at me, just once, like the question itself amuses him a little. “It’s the only answer I’ve got right now.”
We drive in silence for a while. The city falls away behind us. Streetlights turn into dark stretches of highway. My mind keeps looping back to the way he said my real name. Like he’d been waiting to say it. Like it belonged in his mouth.
“You said the accident was staged.” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “How do you know that?”