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Maeve hasn't let go of my hand once. Not when we turned onto the highway. Not when she finally leaned back against the seat. Not even now.

I don't think she realizes she's still holding it. The thought makes something dangerously warm settle beneath my ribs.

I leave it alone. If I think about it too much, I'll ruin it.

The GPS announces the next turn. I don't need it. I'd memorized Bullet's safe house years ago. Mostly because he thought nobody knew it existed.

The gravel driveway crunches beneath the tires as I ease the SUV between a line of pine trees. A small cabin comes into view, tucked against the edge of the woods with a wraparound porch and enough distance from civilization that nobody would think twice about a light burning in the windows.

Maeve studies it through the windshield. "...It's pretty."

"It'll do."

She smiles. "It'll do?"

"It's structurally sound."

Her laugh slips out quietly. "There you are."

I glance toward her. "What?"

"The statistics."

I can't help it. The corner of my mouth twitches.

I park beside the porch and finally pull my hand away, immediately missing the warmth of hers.

I climb out first, circling the front of the SUV before opening her door.

She steps out slowly, taking in the silence around us.

"No guards?"

"No."

“No cameras?"

I hesitate. "...Fewer."

She rolls her eyes. "There you are again."

"What?"

"The honesty that's technically not honesty."

Fair.

I lead her toward the porch, stopping beside a large ceramic planter overflowing with bright yellow flowers.

I crouch, reaching beneath the lip of the planter until my fingers close around the spare key.

"You're kidding."

I glance over my shoulder. "What?"

She points at the planter. "It was under the flowerpot?"

"It's statistically one of the first places people look."