Tom sets the last of the bags on the floor and straightens, his presence suddenly very large in the small room. I'm aware of him in a way I haven't been aware of anyone in years: the breadth of his shoulders, the the way his blue eyes seem to see everything.
"I wrote my number on the back of this," he says, pulling a business card from his shirt pocket and setting it on the dresser. "Office number's on the front, but that one goes straight to my cell. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me."
"Sheriff—"
"Tom."
I take a breath. "Tom. I appreciate everything you've done. Really. But you don't need to worry about us. We'll be fine."
He doesn't argue. Doesn't push. Just nods slowly, like he's accepting my words even if he doesn't believe them.
"There's a place called Murphy's on Main Street," he says. "Good food, fair prices. Tell them Tom sent you, and they'll treat you right."
"Okay."
"And Claire." He pauses at the door, one hand in the frame. "I don't know what you're running from. It's not my business unless you want it to be. But whatever it is, you're not alone anymore. You're in Blackwater Falls now, and we take care of our own."
My throat tightens, and I have to look away, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting in my eyes.
"Thank you," I manage.
"Get some rest. Both of you."
And then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and I'm alone with my son in a motel room at the edge of a town I've never heard of, running from a man who will never stop looking for me.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me up.
"Mommy?" Jackson appears at my knee, Rex dangling from one hand. "Why are you sad?"
"I'm not sad, baby." I pull him into my lap, burying my face in his hair. He smells like bus stations and travel and the last of the baby shampoo I packed. "I'm just tired."
"Me too." He snuggles against me, boneless and trusting. "Is this the adventure?"
"This is the adventure."
"I like adventures."
"I know you do."
He's quiet for a moment, and I think he might be falling asleep. Then: "Mommy? Is Daddy going to come on the adventure too?"
My whole body goes cold.
"No, baby." I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "Daddy's not coming. It's just you and me."
"Oh." He considers this. "Okay. I like it just you and me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Daddy yells too much."
Out of the mouths of babes. My four-year-old son, who I've tried so hard to shield from the worst of it, has still absorbed enough to know that his father yells too much. What else has he seen? What else has he heard? How much damage have I already done by staying as long as I did?
"I know, baby," I whisper. "I know."
He falls asleep in my arms, and I hold him for a long time, watching the afternoon light fade through the thin curtains. The room grows dimmer, softer, and I let myself pretend, just for a moment, that we're safe. That Derek will never find us. That I can actually build a life here, in this small town with its kind sheriff and its run-down motel and its promise of something better.
It's a nice fantasy. I wish I could believe it.
