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I go upstairs first. Change out of my leather cut into a plain black hoodie. Dark jeans. Nothing that screams motorcycle club.

Sit on the edge of my bed and check the time. 6:15 PM.

Paige works until ten. Cole is picking her up after her shift, that gives me almost four hours. I open my phone. Consider pulling someone into this just so I'm not making decisions alone.

Close the phone without typing anything.

This isn't club business. Not yet. This is me keeping a promise I made to myself eight years ago over a casket I should've prevented.

8:30 PM.

I head back downstairs. The common room has quieted slightly. The kids are in bed or close to it, the adults settling into evening routines that look almost domestic.

Nobody comments when I walk out.

Nobody asks where I'm going.

I take the sedan. Drive back toward town with the radio off and my thoughts too loud.

The supermarket parking lot is half-empty when I pull in at 9:00 PM. An hour before closing. An hour before Cole shows up.

I park in the far corner where I have a clear view of the entrance, but I'm mostly hidden by the row of shopping carts nobody's bothered to collect yet.

Cut the engine. Settle in to wait.

This is insane. I know that. Sitting in a parking lot watching for a woman who told me explicitly that she doesn't need saving. This is not protective, this is unhinged.

But I can't make myself leave.

Can't shake the look on Paige's face when she mentioned Cole picking her up. The dread. The resignation. The way she lit that second cigarette like she was fortifying herself for battle.

I've seen that look before.

I pull out my phone. Not to call anyone. Just to have something to do with my hands while I wait. Open the Bible app I downloaded months ago and scroll to Psalms. Find the one I memorized in seminary and haven't been able to forget since.

*The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.*

I used to believe that completely. Used to think God worked through people like me, that prayers, counsel and gentle guidance were enough to save anyone who needed it.

Now I know better.

Now I know that sometimes the Lord works through action instead of prayer. Through intervention instead of patience. Through people who are willing to step between the crushed and the crusher before the damage becomes permanent.

I close the app. Watch the supermarket entrance. Wait.

9:47 PM.

The parking lot has emptied further. Just a handful of employee cars near the side entrance and maybe two customers still inside.

A black SUV pulls in. New model, expensive, tinted windows that match mine. It parks directly in front of the main entrance in the fire lane where parking isn't allowed.

The driver gets out.

Cole. Tall, clean-cut, expensive jacket. The same man from two days ago who thought he had every right to invade Paige's workspace. He leans against the hood of his SUV. Arms crossed. Waiting.

9:58 PM.

The lights inside the supermarket start going dark. Section by section. Closing procedures.