Page 20 of Safe Place

There’s something about the way she says it that makes me pause. Maybe we’re both craving that—something stable, something simple.

“When do you think you’d move in?” I ask.

“I’m off work tomorrow, and my lease is ending anyway. Would it be okay if I brought my stuff over then?”

“Of course,” I say, reaching into the kitchen drawer and grabbing the spare key. “I’m looking forward to living with you.”

She smiles as she takes it, then wraps her arms around me in a quick hug. I freeze for a second—my body unused to the touch—but then I let myself lean into it. It’s been so long since I’ve been hugged, I nearly forgot what it felt like—warmth and connection. Poppy’s positivity, her lightness, is a comfort I didn’t know I needed.

SEVEN

Did you eat today?

SOPHIE

I walk Poppy out to her car, and we say goodbye with plans to meet again tomorrow. On my way back upstairs, I swing by the mailboxes and pull out a letter addressed to me from the Illinois Department of Corrections.

I already know what it is before I even open it.

My hands tremble slightly as I slide my thumb under the seal and unfold the paper. The words hit harder than I expect: Parole granted for good behavior. The release date is two months from today.

I just stand there for a moment, heart pounding, the hallway blurring around the edges. My stepfather—getting out early.

He was sentenced back in Illinois for his second DUI. He hit a pedestrian. He should’ve served the full term. I was hoping by the time he got out, I’d be in law school. More established. Intimidating. But now, I don’t have much time.

I pull out my phone and check my bank account. The number on the screen punches me in the gut. It’s a lot lower than I thought.

A couple weeks ago, my mom called—crying, begging. Some emergency. She needed a few thousand. I told myself I owed her nothing, but I still sent the money.

She let him abuse me. She married him. He would throw things when he drank, shove me into walls, leave bruises that took weeks to fade. But the worst part—the part I never say out loud—were the things he’d say when no one else was around. He’d talk about my body. Tell me he couldn’t wait until I turned eighteen. He used to count down the years on my birthday like it was some kind of sick joke.

I shake the thoughts away. I can’t go there right now. Not when I have a tutoring session in less than thirty minutes.

I force myself to move, to refocus. I need to make a good impression—Carter Delaney is my first and only assigned student. If I mess this up, it could impact whether I keep the job. And now more than ever, I need this extra income. I need a stronger lock for my apartment door. One that can’t be opened with a push like the old, flimsy one my landlord refuses to acknowledge.

Two months. That’s all I have. And I can’t waste a single day of it.

By the time I reach the Student Center, I’m breathless, my lungs burning from the run. I splash water on my face in the bathroom, trying to calm my nerves. Ten minutes early. Good. I need to make a solid impression—if Carter decides I’m not helpful or competent enough, he’ll cancel and find another tutor. And I need this. Badly.

I head into the tutoring room I reserved and quickly set up—laptop open, writing samples arranged, mental script running through my head. I try to steady my breathing, but my nerves are all tangled up—until the door creaks open.

It’s him.

The guy from the cafe.

He walks in looking as smug as he did that day, and closes the door behind him with a soft click that makes the hairs on my neck rise. His grin is slow, and something in my chest twists.

“Look who it is,” he says, tossing his bag on the chair. “Saw your name tag at the cafe—Sophie. Cute name, by the way. Then I noticed a Sophie listed as a writing tutor and figured, why not take my chances? Looks like fate’s finally working in my favor.” He leans in, voice dropping. “God, you smell so fucking good. Did you just take a shower? Now I’m not gonna be able to stop picturing you in there.”

He doesn’t sit. Just looms. I instinctively shrink in my chair, frozen.

He stares at my sweatshirt. “You wore that last time too,” he says, voice low. “I mean, it’s fine. I’m not really planning to see you in any clothes much anyway.”

My stomach knots.

“Do you always dress like this?” he continues.

I glance down at my hoodie. “Like what?”