She gives me a look. “There’s the kind you can fix with a good meal. And the kind that needs more than pancakes.”
I look up, startled by how much I want to talk to her. It’s ridiculous. I don’t know this woman. She could be anyone. But her eyes are kind. And kindness feels like oxygen when you’re drowning.
“My sister is missing,” I say quietly.
Greta’s face changes instantly—serious, steady. “Oh, honey.”
“And I thought I found help,” I add, my voice cracking. “But maybe… maybe they don’t trust me.”
Greta reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a little ticket. She scribbles something, then sets it beside my coffee.
I blink. “What’s that?”
“Pie,” she says simply. “Apple. On me. Because you look like you need sugar and hope.”
My throat tightens. “I can pay.”
“No,” she says firmly. “You can sit here as long as you need. And you can breathe.”
I stare at her, my eyes burning. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Greta pats the table once. “Eat your pie. Then decide your next move when you can think straight.” She scribbles something else on a different piece of paper. “My phone number,” she says as she slides the paper in my direction. She walks away, and I stare after her like she’s a miracle in an apron.
The pie comes. It’s warm and sweet and makes my chest ache because it tastes like childhood and safety and a life before everything went wrong.
I take one bite. And for one minute, I let myself grieve. Not just for Mia. For me. For the stupid way I thought I could walk into Haven 7 and make everything better without telling the truth. For the way Rhett looked at me this morning—soft, almost trusting—before it all went sideways. For the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m already falling for a man who might think I’m a liar.
I press my fingers to my eyes and breathe. When I’m done, I slide out of the booth and head for the door, my bag heavy on my shoulder.
Greta catches my eye from behind the counter. “You be careful,” she says.
I nod, forcing a smile. “I’ll try.”
The bell jingles as I step outside. The cold hits hard. Snowflakes drift down under the streetlights, slow and quiet.
I take three steps onto the sidewalk— and a hand clamps around my arm. My blood turns to ice. I whip around, ready to scream. But the man behind me isn’t a stranger. He’s clean-cut and familiar, wearing a winter coat like a costume, eyes too calm for how fast my heart is racing.
Mark Renshaw.
The cop.
Mia’s cop.
His smile is polite, practiced—the kind he probably used in courtrooms and traffic stops. The kind that makes your skin crawl when you finally see what’s underneath it.
“Emma,” he says, like we’re old friends. “You’ve been causing a lot of noise.”
My throat locks. “Let go of me,” I whisper.
Mark’s grip tightens. “Come on. Don’t make a scene.”
My pulse spikes. I glance toward the diner window—Greta is wiping the counter, her head turned away.
The street is quiet.
Mark leans in, voice low. “You really thought you could run to your daddy’s little friends and hide?”
My stomach drops.