The SUV is parked a few blocks away. Too close if that van is a tail. If I walk her straight to the vehicle, I’m handing them a bow on top of our location. So I steer her away from it.
“We’re taking a walk,” I say, like it’s casual.
Salem’s voice wobbles. “A walk where?”
“A loop,” I murmur. “We’re going to see if we’re being followed.”
Her fingers tighten on mine. “Ozzy…”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve got you.”
We turn down main street, blending into the evening crowd. The town is cozy at night—storefront lights glowing, people strolling with ice cream cones, couples holding hands.
It makes me angry, in a quiet way. Because Salem deserves to be just another girl walking under string lights. Not a girl who has to look over her shoulder. We weave down a side street, then another. I watch reflections in windows. I glance in parked cars’ mirrors.
Salem stays close, her breath shallow. “I don’t like this,” she whispers.
“I know,” I answer.
Her voice trembles. “What if they’re angry? What if?—”
I stop walking abruptly and turn her gently by the shoulders, forcing her to face me. Salem’s eyes flash up, wide with fear. I keep my voice low, firm. “We don’t spiral.”
Her lips part.
I press my forehead lightly to hers for a second, grounding us both. “We handle what’s in front of us. Right now, that’s getting you back safe.” My heart pounds. The need to keep her safe is overwhelming.
Salem nods, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
I pull back and scan the street again. Still no van, no creeping headlights, no slow roll past the intersection. We keep moving. Ten minutes pass. Nothing.
My instincts ease slightly, but I don’t trust the quiet. I don’t trustanyclean exit. Eventually we loop back toward the SUV. We come at it from a different direction, watching the lot first.
The street’s clear, and my pulse steadies. Still, I make Salem stop behind a storefront window while I scan the entire block. Then we move. Fast but not frantic. We get into the SUV, doors locked instantly, engine on.
Salem’s hands shake as she buckles.
“You okay?” I ask.
She swallows. “No.”
I nod once. “Fair.” I pull out slowly, blending with traffic. Then I start the pattern. Two rights. A left. Back past the same intersection. A loop. A circle. Checking. Watching.
If someone follows, they’ll either stay with us or break off. We make three loops. By the time we’re back on the rural road toward Rainmaker, Salem’s shoulders finally drop a fraction. But my grip on the wheel stays tight. Because if that van wasnothing, fine. If it wasn’t nothing—then someone is sniffing around. And that means we have less time than I wanted.
Rainmaker comes into view, lights low, silent and waiting like it’s holding its breath. I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and immediately scan the tree line. Nothing. Still, I don’t relax.
I usher Salem inside first, locking the door behind her. “Go,” I order gently. “Make some tea. And then cozy on the couch with a blanket.”
Salem hesitates. “Ozzy?—”
“Go,” I repeat, not harsh—just firm.
She nods and moves toward the kitchen, her steps tight and quick.