“Belle.”
Penelope’s voice cracked from the hallway. She crept in barefoot, notebook pressed to her chest like a shield. And then she broke, rushing forward, clutching my arm.
“Don’t go,” she begged, sobs spilling. “Please don’t leave me here with him. You promised we’d stick together. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”
Her desperation gutted me. She clung so tightly I could feel her nails through my sleeve.
I wanted to stay. God, I wanted to stay. But there was nothing left in me but fear and survival.
I pried her fingers off one by one. My throat scraped with every word I didn’t say. I couldn’t promise her anything anymore.
Her cries followed me down the stairs, echoing off the marble as the men flanked me, making sure I kept moving.
The last thing I saw before the doors slammed shut was my father, calm again, pouring himself another drink.
Now here I am. Maplewood. A place too small for headlines, too quiet for whispers. A dot on the map. The end of the train line.
My suitcase rattles across the cracked platform as I head for the exit. My phone buzzes once in my pocket. Unknown Number. I don’t need to checkto know who it could be. I hit decline without slowing.
The town waits just beyond the station doors. Neon signs hum above diners and pawn shops, streets stitched together by power lines and stubborn wildflowers forcing their way through the pavement. Everything feels sun-worn and watchful, like it’s testing whether I belong.
I’ve got enough cash to last a little while, scraped together from what Nathan left me, hidden before my father could get his claws into it. Enough for a motel, maybe rent if I’m careful. But Maplewood isn’t London. Without wheels, I’m trapped.
Public transport here is little more than a once-a-day bus and a train that dead-ends at the platform I just stepped off. If I’m going to stay hidden, I need freedom. A car. Something that runs, cheap enough to buy outright, forgettable enough that no one looks twice.
That’s how I end up following the cracked side walk two blocks over, heat pressing down until the smell of motor oil hits me.
The garage sits on the corner like it’s been here forever. Faded brick. Corrugated shutters rolled up to reveal rows of steel and shadow. Cars are scattered across the lot, some gleaming with fresh polish, others stripped down to rust and bone.
I grip the strap of my bag tighter. It’s just a transaction. Get a car. Keep moving. Keep breathing.
But even before I step inside, something in me knows this place isn’t just where I’ll buy freedom. It’s where I’ll meet the kind of trouble I won’t be able to outrun.
The air inside the garage is thick with gasoline and heat, the clatter of toolsechoing off the walls. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, catching on chrome fenders lined up like soldiers.
I hover just inside the doorway, scanning rows of cars that look way out of my budget. Sleek sedans. A red Mustang gleaming under the lights. Engines stripped down to bare bones.
“You lost, Princess?”
The voice comes from behind me, low and teasing.
I turn, and there he is.
Tall. Broad in the shoulders, lean everywhere else. Grease-smeared overalls rolled at the sleeves, tattoos curling down his forearms, disappearing under the collar. Dark hair falls across his forehead in messy waves, damp with sweat. There’s a streak of oil across one cheek, and those green eyes—sharp, alive with mischief, like they’ve already seen too much.
He wipes his hands on a rag and leans against the counter like he owns the place. No, like he owns the whole damn town. The smirk curving his mouth is practised, dangerous, the kind of grin that gets girls into trouble and makes them thank him for it.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
His smirk deepens. “Touchy.”
“I’m not lost. I’m here to buy a car. So if you don’t mind, can I speak to the manager?”
“You’re looking at him.”
I blink. “You?”
“Hunter Hayes,” he says, offering a hand I don’t take. “Owner. Mechanic. Best in town.” His grin sharpens. “And the guy who’s about to get you exactly what you need.”
