Chapter 22
Exposure
Darcy
The courthouse bell echoed off the mountains as Darcy’s phone vibrated with a message from Burke: “Truck’s out front when you’re ready. No rush.”
The gentle warmth in his words made her smile. Not long ago, Jason demanded dinner at precisely seven—no exceptions. Now, for the first time in years, her own pace mattered.
Darcy paused at her cottage door, hand on the cool knob, giving herself a quiet moment before stepping into Burke’s world.
Everything with him felt patient and unforced.
Coffee at City Limits led to drives along the Blue Ridge; quiet evenings on Burke’s porch blurred into laughter over burgers at the Sky Bar.
She slipped into the rhythm of her new life almost before she realized it, savoring a freedom she hadn’t known she needed.
Her days grew gentle and steady—afternoons marked by Main Street’s hum, evenings by Burke’s truck easing up her street. He never pushed for more, always waiting for her to choose to meet him, as if he understood how much those choices meant.
Her cottage on Oak Street—cornflower blue with white shutters and a silver-gray tin roof—looked plain yet inviting beneath two oaks.
Street parking in front was a nuisance, so she always tucked her Jeep behind the house on the narrow gravel lane.
The small, open back-yard, visible from the street, reminded her that starting over in a small town didn’t mean true invisibility.
Inside, bead-board walls and wide-plank floors offered warmth and comfort—nothing like Jason’s cold Denver mansion. Even as a rental, it felt hers in a way nothing with Jason ever had.
She didn’t miss luxury. Her single indulgence was Essence of Spring, a watercolor above the fireplace.
Its mossy rocks and pale blossoms let her imagine she was waking from a long sleep.
Each morning, tea in hand, she’d study the painting until the colors blurred—reminding herself she wasn’t frozen anymore.
That Friday at Mountain Credit Union, she handed over her ID and first paycheck. The teller lingered a beat too long on the card. Darcy coached herself: Just a deposit. Routine. Nothing to invite questions.
The bell over the door jingled. Deputy Sara Parker entered in her crisp tan uniform, auburn hair swept into a ponytail. She nodded at the teller and gave Darcy a measured look.
“Settling in, are you?”
Darcy forced a small smile. “I guess I am.”
A bright voice called out: “Darcy! Hey, Darcy!”
She didn’t react at all. The name slid past—strange, unfamiliar—until Willow from City Limits reached the counter. Only then did it click—Darcy. That was her now.
“Sorry,” Darcy said, a little too brightly. “Hi, Willow.”
“How are you?”
“Oh, I’m good,” Darcy replied.
“Wonderful.” Willow’s tone turned teasing as she glanced between Darcy and Sara. “And you and the sheriff—how’s that going?”
Darcy braced herself. From the edge of her vision, Sara watched in silence, her expression unreadable. The exchange left Darcy uneasy.
Willow went on. “Drop by soon—I’ve got peach cobbler, Sheriff Scott’s favorite. Maybe blackberry if I can find the good berries!”
Smiling tightly, Darcy realized everyone noticed, and it wasn’t all comfort. Attention in a small town was a double-edged sword. The more people saw, the greater the risk.
The teller pushed her ID back. “You’re all set, Miss Nolan—and say hi to Sheriff Scott for me.”
Heat crept up Darcy’s neck. She pocketed the receipt, nodded to Willow, and stepped outside. Sunlight and weekend chatter failed to ease her tension. Being seen meant safety—but also risk.
Across the street, a dark sedan idled. A figure—a man—was just visible through tinted glass. When she looked again, the car was gone, but the feeling of being watched stayed with her.
That night, as her tea brewed, Darcy caught her reflection in the kitchen window—shoulders still tight, one hand clamped around her mug.
It’s just a town, she told herself. Just faces, names, a normal Friday afternoon.
Yet part of her still braced for Jason’s voice—sharp, cold—cutting through the quiet.
Even miles away, she felt his grip in old habits; every friendly question seemed edged.
Am I safe here? Will I ever stop looking over my shoulder?
By morning, Main Street had transformed for the Saturday market—canvas tents blooming before dawn, vendors stacking crates of tomatoes and wildflowers.
Jazz guitar drifted from the courthouse steps, and children darted between booths, fingers sticky with peach juice.
The hush that usually blanketed town had lifted, replaced by a warm, communal buzz.
Darcy moved differently—less guarded, almost swept along. People greeted her by name, and for a fleeting hour, she let herself believe she might stop running.
Jason
Jason paced his office, city lights bleeding through the glass.
Routine gave his days clarity—coffee at 7:15 sharp, meetings at nine, never a minute late.
Darcy had been part of that structure, another pillar in the architecture of his life—a life that only made sense when everything stayed in its proper place.
Now, each time he glanced at the empty chair across the mahogany table, irritation prickled beneath his skin.
It shouldn’t have mattered. She was gone—replaced easily enough, in theory.
But he hated loose ends. He hated that people noticed her absence, that his schedule held a gap no assistant could quite fill, and most of all, that she’d chosen unpredictability over his carefully built certainty.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through old messages.
Disruption—he would not tolerate it. Not in his house. Not in his life. He never had.