"There's got to be somewhere else," I continue. "The motel on Route 9 isn't fancy, but it's clean. Or I could make some calls, see if anyone in town has a room to rent short-term."
"I can't afford—"
"Let me help." I don't know why I'm pushing this hard. I've redirected plenty of people away from the Harlow place over the years. Usually, I point them toward the motel and wish them luck. But something about this woman, this boy, this situation, is making me want to do more. "That's my job. Helping people."
Claire stares at me for a brief moment. I can see the calculations happening behind her eyes: weighing risk against benefit, trust against experience. Whatever she's running from, it has taught her to be careful.
"Why?" she finally asks.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care? You don't know me. You don't owe me anything."
It's a fair question. I should have a professional answer ready, something about civic duty, community welfare, the responsibilities of my office. But what comes out instead is the truth.
"Because you look like you could use someone on your side."
Her eyes widen slightly. For a second, I see past the fear and exhaustion to something raw and startled. Something that might be hope.
Then she blinks, and the walls go back up.
"One night," she says. "I'll stay at the motel for one night while I figure out my next move. But I'm paying for it myself."
"I can—"
"I'm paying for it myself," she repeats, and there's steel in her voice now. A strength that was hiding beneath all that wariness. "I don't take charity."
I hold up my hands in surrender. "Fair enough. But at least let me help carry these bags to my truck. I'll drive you over to the motel. It's too far to walk with all this."
She hesitates. I can see her fighting the instinct to refuse, to keep handling everything alone. But then Jackson makes a sound, a small, tired sound that's half yawn and half whimper, and her resolve crumbles.
"Okay," she says. "Thank you."
Chapter 2 - Claire
The sheriff's truck smells like coffee and something clean, like pine or cedar. It's such a normal smell, such a safe smell, that I almost start crying right there in the passenger seat.
I don't, of course. I've gotten good at not crying.
Jackson is buckled in between us, Rex the dinosaur clutched to his chest, his head already starting to droop. It's been a long day. A long week. A long year, if I'm being honest. The bus ride from the city took fourteen hours, and before that, there were three days of planning, packing, and waiting for the right moment to run.
The right moment turned out to be when Derek left for what he called a "business meeting" in Atlantic City. I had maybe six hours before he'd start wondering where I was because I didn’t take his calls. Six hours to grab everything I could carry, empty the secret cash stash I'd been building for months, and get to the bus station.
That was four days ago. Four days of looking over my shoulder, jumping at every loud noise, expecting to see his face in every crowd.
Four days of freedom that still doesn't feel real.
"You okay?"
The sheriff's voice pulls me back to the present. I realize I've been staring out the window, watching the trees blur past, my hands clenched so tight in my lap that my knuckles have gone white.
"Fine," I say. "Just tired."
He doesn't push. I appreciate that more than he knows.
The motel appears around a bend in the road—a long, low building with a neon sign that reads BLACKWATER FALLS MOTEL in flickering blue letters. It's not fancy. The parking lot is cracked, the paint is peeling, and the office window has a handwritten sign that says VACANCY in crooked letters.
It's perfect.
