After a dinner of cold turkey sub sandwich and a shitty night’s sleep on a too-soft mattress, I’m sitting in the sterile breakfast area of my hotel. Sipping bad coffee, I chew on a stale bagel with cream cheese and try to tune out the news station blaring from the TV mounted on the wall.

I’m sitting at one of six tables. The only other non-empty one is occupied by an older couple that look to be in their late sixties or early seventies. The man is trying to read a newspaper while the woman talks to him. From what I can tell, they’re visiting their son and daughter-in-law from out of town. The woman is angry that they put them up at this hotel rather than having them stay at their home.

“I mean, it’s not like they don’t have the room,” she’s huffing. “My God, we come all this way to visit our grandchildren, and we end up spending the whole trip sitting in our hotel room twiddling our thumbs.” The woman waits for a response from her husband. When he doesn’t give one, she continues. “She’s never liked us, you know. Robbie wouldn’t be behind this. It was her idea. I’m sure of it.”

“Rose, it’s fine,” the man says tiredly. “We saw the kiddos all day yesterday. Besides, I’m not going to complain about not having to sleep on a little kid’s bed that’s two feet off the ground and six inches too short.”

“That’s beside the point.” The woman waves her hand at him as though waving away his words. “The point is, they don’t want us here. She doesn’t want us here. After all we’ve done for them. We practically paid for their wedding!”

The couple continues their bickering, and I stop listening and turn my attention to the day ahead of me. My first stop should be the laundromat again, to check whether they’re open. Last night I spent some time searching for information about who owns E-Z Wash Express. I found the business in the state’s database, with the owner listed as an M. L. Stephanos. No first name, just initials. Plugging his name (assuming it’s a him) into a search engine yielded no results. Whoever this person is, he or she has no online presence. He’s not in any FBI database, either. It’s possible this is a squeaky-clean luddite who stays far away from computers. It’s also possible the name isn’t real.

Before I try to visit the laundromat again, I need to see if Chief Crup’s babysitters are out there waiting for me this morning. And I could use some exercise to work out the kinks from that lousy night’s sleep. I decide to kill two birds with one stone and go for a run. Dumping the last of my coffee and bagel, I go upstairs to my room and grab my running clothes out of my bag. I put on a pair of shorts, my sports bra and a T-shirt, and my running shoes. Pulling a headband over my head to keep my hair out of my face, I slip my key card into a small concealed pocket in my shorts and head out the door with my ear buds and my phone.

The highway that my hotel is on isn’t exactly conducive to a pleasant run, but I seem to remember that if I take it about half a mile into town, there’s a side road I can turn onto that will lead me into a quiet neighborhood. I do a few stretches leaning against a wooden bench outside the front door of the hotel, then start off at a slow jog to warm up my muscles.

No police car pulls out of the shadows to follow me. It looks like the Tanner Springs PD has decided to leave me alone this morning. Maybe following me to a sub shop yesterday proved boring enough that they lost interest. I increase my pace a couple of minutes into my run, and spot the side street I want to turn down. The street ends up being busier than I thought it would be. It’s wider than I remember — practically a highway in its own right. Maybe there’s some development on the other end of it that has increased the traffic. Thankfully, there’s a fairly generous shoulder, so I move over onto the dirt and gravel and keep running. I’m on the left-hand side of the road, and cars pass by me, close enough for me to feel the wind as they pass, but not close enough to worry me.

I see the street that leads into the neighborhood and turn in. I start to pass by a series of tidy, medium-sized homes, with large leafy trees in front of them. As I run along, I remember that a childhood friend from elementary school used to live down here. Amelia, her name was. I picture her long straight hair and her red glasses, and recall how she used to have an American Girl doll collection I envied. I remember coming over to her house to play a couple of times. Until her mom found out who my parents were and where we lived, and decided Amelia couldn’t play with me anymore.

A heavy feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. Amazing how something like that will still upset you, all these years later.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and blow it out, then turn up the volume on my music. I increase my pace, as though by running faster I can run away from the ghosts of my past. I finish my run through the neighborhood, purposely avoiding the street that Amelia’s old house is on. By the time I get back onto the highway, I’m breathing heavily and streaming with sweat.

Glad to be on the home stretch as my feet pound along the dirt and gravel, I start daydreaming about how good a shower will feel. I’m praying that the room I’m in will have good water pressure when my right foot comes down half-on and half-off the raised blacktop. With a yelp of surprise, I go down hard. Falling sideways, my hip lands on a large piece of gravel, right on the bone. The pain is so sharp that for a second it immobilizes me. Tears spring to my eyes and I let out an involuntary cry, doubling over.

Dimly, I realize part of my body is actually lying in the road. I force myself to slide myself completely onto the shoulder while I wait for the pain from my hip to recede. When it does, I realize I’ve hurt my ankle, too, though I can’t tell how badly. I inhale and exhale slowly, breathing through the pain, and try to flex my foot. A flare of fire shoots up my leg, making me grit my teeth and wince. I can move it, at least, so it’s not broken. It might be sprained, but if I’m lucky it’s just twisted. I decide to sit here for a few minutes before I try to walk.

Just then, a motorcycle comes over the hill off in the distance. The distinctive thump of its engine tells me it’s a Harley. I look up, and notice the rider isn’t wearing a helmet. His long hair flies out behind him as he rides. I can’t help but think he looks a bit like Travis.

Then as the bike gets closer, I realize why.

It’s because it is Travis.

Shit.

Crazily, I find myself glancing around for someplace to hide. As though I could just roll into the drainage ditch and he wouldn’t see me. But it’s already too late. It’s clear he’s recognized me. And even worse:

He’s slowing down.

“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Travis stops the bike about five feet from where I’m sitting. He cuts the engine.

“This ain’t no road to be runnin’ on,” he growls, frowning in disapproval as he looks me over.

“Uh, good morning to you, too,” I shoot back. “And funny, I seem to have a memory problem. I don’t remember asking you to come here and give me your opinion.”

Travis swings a leg over his seat and climbs off the bike. He walks forward a couple of steps, until he’s towering over me like a giant. “What the hell are you doin’ sittin’ there? Waitin’ for a bus?”

I roll my eyes. “If you must know, I twisted my ankle. I’m just resting it for a few minutes before I try to stand up.”

“You’re gonna get mowed down by a truck, sitting there.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t choose a more convenient place to twist my ankle,” I snap. “I guess I should have consulted you first.” He’s glaring at me like I’m some sort of stupid kid. It makes my blood boil, even though he’s right. This isn’t the safest place to be sitting. But that doesn’t make me any less irritated with him.

“You should have at least had the common sense not to go running on a highway.”

I snort. “That’s pretty funny, coming from someone who doesn’t bother to wear a helmet.”

I expect that to piss him off, and get ready for him to yell at me. But to my surprise, one corner of his mouth goes up in a grudging smirk. “Maybe. But that’s my choice. Not yours.”

“So only men get choices?” I counter. “You get to choose to risk splattering your brains all over the pavement every time you ride, but I have to ask permission to choose a running route?”

Travis shakes his head and sighs. “I see the years haven’t made you any less of a pain in the ass.” He reaches a large hand toward me. “Come on. Let’s see if you can stand up.”

I consider refusing, but in the end I decide this momentary détente is better than outright hostility. I reach up to accept his offer. His strong fingers wrap around my hand, enclosing it in a grip I know could crush every bone if he had a mind to. At the contact with his skin a rush of memory bursts into my brain. Suddenly I’m seventeen again, and he’s taking my hand for the first time.

Stop it.

Frowning with concentration, I plant my good foot firmly. And then, with a surprising gentleness, he raises me up, as though I’m no lighter than a feather to him.

Once I’m standing, balancing on one foot, he doesn’t let go. Instead, as I face him, he takes hold of my opposite shoulder with his other hand, to steady me.

“Try to put your foot down,” he says.

His deep baritone is so achingly familiar. It calls up memories of a time when I thought that maybe — just maybe — there was someone in the world who could love me just the way I was. Someone I could trust with the most broken parts of me.

A little shudder of longing passes through me like an echo, but I push it away.

Gingerly, I place my right foot on the ground. Travis’s grip tightens on my shoulder as I try to put weight on it. A needle of pain goes up my leg and I wince, but it’s not as bad as I feared. I freeze for a second, then put a little more weight on.

“I don’t think it’s sprained,” I tell him, relieved. “Just wrenched it a bit.”

“Good deal,” he nods. He doesn’t take his hand off my shoulder. Now that I’m not so worried about my ankle, I’m starting to be very aware of how sweaty and gross I probably look right now.

“Well,” I continue, a little awkwardly. “Thanks for stopping. I mean, you didn’t have to.” I look up into his eyes, for the first time, really. Those electric blues stare back at me, unreadable. I feel my sweaty cheeks flush and resist the impulse to look away.

“You shouldn’t be walking on that,” he murmurs. “Not until you can put it up and get some ice on it.”

“It’s okay. It’s not far.” Actually, the prospect of walking the final three quarters of a mile back to the hotel is daunting, but I can make it if I go slowly enough.

“Fuck that. Come on.”

The hand that’s still holding mine tugs softly as he takes a step toward his Harley. Instinctively, I pull away, resisting.

“You need me to carry you?” he asks.

“What? No!” I squawk.

“Well then, come on.”

“I don’t need you to give me a ride, Travis.”

“I’m not letting you walk back.” His jaw goes hard.

“I’m a grown woman,” I fire back. “You don’t let me do anything.”

“Do I have to pick you up and put you on the bike myself?” he threatens.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I snap, but even as I say it, I know I’m wrong.

“You wanna try me?”

I huff in irritation. “The years haven’t made you any less pig-headed, have they?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “More, if anything,” he growls, giving me just the hint of a grin. “So knock it off and come on.”

He looks at me expectantly. When I don’t move right away, he leans over and bends down as if to pick me up.

I let out shriek. “Okay, okay!” I protest, feeling ridiculous. He gives me his hand again and I lean into it for support. I take a hobbling step forward. Then another. Then another. Finally, when I’m standing next to the bike, Travis lets go of me and straddles the seat.

“Put your hand on my shoulder for balance,” he instructs, and watches as I clumsily lift my injured leg over the back. He waits until I’ve managed to situate myself and put both feet on the pegs.

“Where we goin’?” he asks.

“Oh! The Courtyard Hotel.” I wave a hand in that direction.

Travis fires up the bike. As he puts it in gear, it lurches forward a little, and I instinctively grab onto his waist for support. My hands slip under the leather of his motorcycle vest, settling on the soft cotton of his T-shirt. I can feel the hard muscles of his stomach and the heat of his skin through the fabric.

Something stirs inside me: a primal, physical reaction that weakens my knees and causes my breath to speed up before I even realize what’s happening.

I lean forward against Travis, feeling the muscles in his back work as he steers the bike. The whole way back to the hotel, I fight the fluttering of my heart and the heat pooling between my legs. I try not to think about how dizzying it is to be so close to him — even as I fantasize about sliding my hands under his shirt and running my hands along the skin of his muscled abdomen.