"We'll stay tonight," she says finally. "Just tonight. And then I'll figure out the next step."
"Okay."
"And thank you." She wipes at her eyes quickly, embarrassed by the tears. "I mean it. Thank you."
Jackson has already fallen asleep on the bed, curled up with Rex clutched to his chest. Claire looks at him with an expression so tender it makes my chest tight.
"Let him sleep," I say. "I need to head back to the station for a few hours anyway. Take some time to get settled, rest if you can. There's food in the kitchen. You can help yourself to anything. Make yourselves at home."
She nods, still looking uncertain but less guarded than before.
I grab my keys and head for the door, then pause. "Claire?"
"Yeah?"
"You're safe here. I promise. Whatever you're running from, whoever you're afraid of, they won't find you here."
I leave before she can respond, before I can say anything else stupid, before I can examine too closely why this matters so much to me.
Back in my truck, I sit for a moment, staring at my house. There are people inside now. A woman and a little boy, using my space, sleeping in my guest room, existing in my life.
I should feel invaded. I should feel like my sanctuary has been compromised. Instead, I feel like maybe, for the first time in four years, my house might actually be a home.
I start the truck and head back to town, back to my real life, back to being Sheriff Harris instead of just Tom, but part of me is already counting the hours until I can go home again. Until I can walk through that door and hear other people living, breathing, existing in my space.
It won't last. Nothing ever does. Claire will find her feet, get her own place, build her own life. She and Jackson will move on, and I'll go back to my quiet house and my jazz records and my empty evenings.
But for now, just for now, I get to pretend this is real.
And that's more than I've had in a long time.
Chapter 6 - Claire
The house is beautiful.
That's my first thought once Tom leaves and the door clicks shut behind him. I stand in the living room, Jackson still asleep in the guest room, and just... look.
Everything is clean. Not obsessively so, but clean in a way that speaks to someone who takes care of their space. The hardwood floors are swept, the surfaces dust-free, books arranged neatly on the shelves. The couch has a throw blanket folded over one arm, and the coffee table holds a half-finished crossword puzzle and a mug with coffee rings at the bottom.
It's lived-in but cared for. Comfortable. Real.
Nothing like the penthouse.
Derek's place, our place, though it never felt like mine, was always a disaster. Expensive furniture covered in takeout containers and empty bottles. Designer clothes thrown over chairs. Mail piled up on the counter because he couldn't be bothered to sort through it. He had a cleaning service that came once a week, but by the next day, everything was trashed again.
I used to try to keep it clean. Used to spend my days picking up after him, organizing, making things presentable. But he'd just mess it up again, sometimes deliberately, leaving his shit everywhere like he was marking territory.
Eventually, I stopped trying. What was the point? Nothing I did was ever good enough anyway.
But this house feels different. Like someone actually lives here, not just exists. Like someone comes home at the end of the day and finds peace in these walls.
I walk over to the record player, running my fingers over the smooth wood. The album sitting on top is Miles Davis, *Kind of Blue*. I don't know much about jazz, but even I've heard of this one. Classic, timeless.
The bookshelf is full of thrillers—Lee Child, Michael Connelly, Daniel Silva. Worn paperbacks with cracked spines, the kind that have been read and reread. A man who loves his books enough to keep coming back to them.
I check on Jackson, still asleep, his mouth slightly open, Rex tucked under his arm, then make my way to the kitchen.
And oh.