I don't look at him, but I feel the shift, the way his body goes from watchful to predatory in the space of a heartbeat.
"Davis." His voice is flat, dangerous. "You want to walk up to that cop and ask him about the men hunting me."
"He notices things," I say quickly. "More than the locals do. If anyone would know who they are, it'd be him."
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Wonder what he'd say about you."
It's not a question. In fact, he sounds a bit sarcastic. With a frown, I continue driving, refusing to look at him.
The silence stretches for several minutes and I'm just starting to breathe a little easier when he suddenly, and quietly, speaks up.
"You're running from something, Maya." His tone is strong and certain. "Or someone."
16
ALEKSANDR
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and unavoidable. Maya's hands tighten on the steering wheel, her knuckles going white, and I watch the muscle in her jaw jump as she clenches her teeth.
I'm not wrong. I know I'm not wrong.
The photograph, the isolation, the way she moves through town like she's expecting someone to recognize her. The careful construction of "Maya" as an identity rather than a person. It's all there, written in every defensive gesture, every deflection, every lie she tells herself is protection.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm a man with no memory accusing a woman of hiding her past. But at least I'm honest about not knowing who I am. She's built an entire life around pretending.
"I'm not having this conversation," she finally says, her voice tight.
"We just did."
"No. You made an accusation. That's not a conversation."
I lean back in the passenger seat, watching the landscape roll past. Trees give way to open sky, then back to trees. The road winds down the mountain in lazy curves, almost peaceful.
"I'm not judging you," I say quietly. "Whatever you're running from, whoever you're hiding from, that's your business."
"Then why bring it up?"
"Because if someone's looking for you, and someone's looking for me, we need to know if those someones are connected." I turn to look at her profile, the stubborn set of her chin, the way her dark blue eyes stay fixed on the road. Even tense and defensive, she's beautiful. The morning light catches in her blonde hair, and I find myself noticing the curve of her neck, the way her sweater clings to full breasts that rise and fall with each breath. "We need to know what we're dealing with."
She's quiet for a long moment. The truck's engine hums, and gravel crunches under the tires as we round another curve.
"They're not connected," she says finally. "The people looking for me have no reason to care about you."
Does she realize she just admitted that someone is looking for her? I want to press, to ask who, but I don't want to scare her away again. "You sure about that?"
"Yes." But she doesn't sound sure. She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.
I let it drop. Pushing her will only make her retreat further, and right now, I need her focused. Need us both focused.
The town appears through the trees, small and unremarkable. A main street with maybe a dozen buildings, half of them lookinglike they haven't been updated since the 1950s. A general store, a diner, a post office, and at the far end, the hardware store.
Maya parks in front of the hardware store, and we sit there for a moment, both of us scanning the street. Looking for threats. Looking for anything out of place. Then we get out of the truck and act as normal and as inconspicuous as possible.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and the smell of sawdust and motor oil hits me immediately. It's familiar in a way I can't explain, like I've been in a thousand places just like this. The aisles are narrow, packed with tools and supplies, and at the back counter stands John Davis.
He looks up when we enter, and I see the recognition flash across his face before he schools his expression into something neutral. Professional.
"Morning," he calls out, his voice friendly but his eyes sharp. "Help you folks find anything?"