Nothing good will come of this, but I can’t take the sorrow in her eyes any longer. I can’t take the shit-ton of it filling me, either, strapped around my neck like an albatross made of solid granite.

Cupcake’s the reason I feel this way. At least part of it. She’s done me one hell of a favor, watching the boys every afternoon, asking for nothing in return. I’d offered to pay her, but she’d refused to even consider that.

She just wanted a smile, a few kind words, a goddamned thank you or two. And I've been too screwed up to give her more than a disinterested grunt and a weight from hell she doesn't need.

Fuck. It isn't fair and I know it. I'm not oblivious.

The least I can give her is the truth – a small portion of it.

Still holding onto her arm, I close the door, and then guide her to the corner of the room furthest away from the bed the boys are sleeping in. I can't wake them up with this.

“Look, Tabby, I can’t tell you everything, but what I’m about to say, is the truth.”

My heart literally swells at how her face softens.

“You don’t have to. I never asked for everything,” she whispers.

But I want to get it out, have her understand, but there's this ugly fear in my guts she’ll hate me once she knows. “You can’t tell anyone a word I say.”

“I won’t,” she says. “Promise.”

I have no idea where to start, what to say specifically.

“Had she been ill long?”

I shake my head, wondering if I’d already spoken. Convinced I hadn’t, I ask, “Who?”

“Your wife.”

“I’ve never been married.”

She glances towards the bed. “Grandpa said their mother died recently.”

A wave of regret washes over me.

“He said you told him that.”

“I did,” I admit. I'd said a lot of things to get the job, most of them true, stopping at the part where I'm running for my life after an accidental murder.

“Why?” There’s skepticism in her eyes again. “So he’d give you the job?”

“Bingo.” I had to give Morris a normal reason why the boys and I are here. Why I needed the job so badly. He’s an intuitive old goat, would've seen through any obvious lies.

“So she’s not dead?”

“She’s dead all right,” I say.

Tabby blinks and her eyes get big. “But that’s not what’s bothering you. It’s not the chip on your shoulder,” she says softly.

No. Fuck no. It’s far more than 'a chip.' More like a thousand-pound boulder. “Some things happened a few weeks ago. Bad shit, and now I've got bad people looking for me.”

The splattering of fear racing across her face has me taking hold of her hand.

“They don’t know where we are. I have to believe they won’t find us here.” Not for a while, anyway. I’m still hoping they're following my pinged phone all the way to Florida. They’ll figure it out sooner or later, and by then, I can only hope any trail I may have left is ice cold.

“Who are they?”

“Demons. People deep in the criminal world.” I can’t tell her about the deaths, but can let her know what lead up to it at the beginning. “They needed money laundered. I got blackmailed into doing it.”

Her eyes pop wide again. “So, are you wanted by the FBI?”

I have no idea, but for her sake, I shake my head. “They aren’t the type to go to the FBI, and no one will report the money laundering. I just refused to keep doing it. That's why I've got problems.” That’s what I should have done in the very beginning. Instead, fearing Nelia would find a way to take away the boys, I agreed to run a few thousand dollars worth of drug money through my construction company. Then a few thousand turned five figures, then six. I know now, as I should have then, it would never fucking stop. You give these men an inch, they'll be up your ass for miles.

“And now they're after you,” she finishes.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. Can’t you just...I don't know, go to the authorities?”

I shake my head. “If only it was that easy. I broke the law, Cupcake. Also not sure the police can do shit to protect us from these people. Their Syndicate has tendrils everywhere. I can't start over with the boys in witness protection, growing up with their old lives and me scorched to the ground.”

Her eyes are so sweet, so innocent, nowhere cut out for contemplating something like this. Guilt blackens my heart for laying this on her, but there's also a vicious relief in giving up the truth.

She takes hold of my other hand. “There are people who can help you, Rex. I can help. You just have to let me.”

I pull her towards me, close enough for me to place a tiny kiss on her forehead. “No. Nothing you can do, Cupcake. Nothing anyone can do. I'm not putting you in danger.”

“Yes –“

I shake my head. “We’ll be leaving soon.” Nodding towards the bed, I continue, “The boys and me, we can't stay here forever once the job's done, much as I'd like it. Soon as the money comes in from remodeling the barn, we're moving on.” I didn't expect this part to be the hardest confession. My heart constricts so tightly my chest burns.

Fuck.

I know this is exactly how it has to be, and if I don’t get her out of this room soon, I won’t want her to leave.

I lead her back to the door. “Thanks, Cupcake, you’re an amazing, compassionate, beautiful woman. I hope you never change.”

I open the door then, gently nudging her over the threshold because it'd be far too easy to ask her to stay. She leaves without a fight, or maybe she just doesn't know what the hell to say. I can't blame her.

As soon as I push the door closed, I lock it, as if that'll reconstruct the barrier between us I just tore down. Why did I have to meet someone like her now? When my life's as fucked as it can possibly be?

I back away from the door, watching to make sure it doesn’t magically open. When the backs of my legs bump the foot of the bed, I sit.

It's not long before I lose track of how much time passes since she left. I crawl to the head of the bed and click off the lamp. Sleep doesn’t come quick or easy.

I can’t stop thinking of Cupcake. Of how sad and forlorn she looked when I closed that door, wishes etched all over her face for us, for the kids, for me.

But this is how it has to be. How I have to be.

Distant. Detached from everyone and everything. No more midnight confessions where I might slip, say too damn much, or put too many promises in her sweet young heart.

I close my eyes, begging for sleep to come.

* * *

She’s stretched out in a big tub, naked, one leg hanging over the edge.

I’m pissed.

Yell at her.

She doesn’t open an eye.

Blood boils inside me as I storm into the room, calling her the fucking bitch she is.

She still doesn’t move.

That’s when I notice what’s next to her.

Needles. Tubing. Drug shit.

“Nelia!” I shout one more time, roaring so loud my throat shifts on bone.

She still doesn’t move.

I lean down to touch her.

Cold. So fucking cold.

Then, suddenly, she grabs my arm.

I jolt backwards. The air stalls in my lungs.

It’s not Nelia. It’s Tabby! Her sweet eyes empty, scared, lifeless.

“Cupcake!” I scream, reaching to grab her as she slips beneath the water, too deep for me to reach.

“Cupcake!”

* * *

I can’t breathe. It hurts. Agony like I’ve never known. I rip my eyes open, cough like mad, trying to catch my breath. It was a dream. A goddamn dream.

I press a hand to my forehead. Another nightmare. Trying to split my soul in two, or at least my head.

Nelia’s dead. A fucking overdose, but Cupcake is fine.

She's fine.

Too afraid to close my eyes, I get off the bed. Go to the bathroom. Fill a glass with water. Drink it. Then do it again.

She’s fine, you fool.

“Fine!” It comes out a harsh whisper. I barely recognize my own reflection.

For now, I'll trust she's fine without acting like a madman. And fine is how I need her to stay.

* * *

I work my ass off the next two days, needing to get this project done as fast as possible. The routine is the same: the boys stay with me, playing in the barn, until Tabby comes and gets them at noon. I try hard to think of her as Tabby, not Cupcake. Not the woman Nelia’s dead face transformed into during that fucked up dream. And I try harder to avoid her day and night. I'm giving her the cold shoulder again and it makes me feel like shit, only a little less than pouring my heart out again, putting her in danger.

It has to be almost noon, so I climb off the ladder, tell the boys to zip up their coats and get their hats on.

“Why?” Adam asks while zipping.

Chase tugs on his Hulk hat. “Where're we going, daddy?”

“Lodge,” I growl.

They race for the door, glad to have the morning over no doubt. We're inching toward spring, but more than a couple hours out here still lets Jack Frost creep into your bones.

Morris is behind the check-in desk. Good. I don’t want to run into Tabby looking for him.

“I need a few things.” I set the list I’ve written on the desk. “Mostly nails and pole-barn screws.”

The old man frowns. “Can’t go to town today. Several guests are due here anytime,” Morris says. “But you can go get them. I’ll call Walt at the hardware store and tell him you’re coming. He’ll put it on my charge account.”

I hadn’t left the lodge since arriving over a week ago.

“The hardware store is right on main street. You can’t miss it.” Morris picks up the phone and nods toward the boys. “They can stay with Tabby. She’s in the kitchen.”

“No, she’s right here.”

Shit. Avoiding her hasn’t changed much inside me. The sound of her voice still turns me on. Exactly why I grab the list off the desk and walk out the door.

Split Harbor's only ten miles up the road, a somewhat rough county road considering the weather keeps trying to fool us into thinking spring might be near. The last two days were in the forties, today even warmer. The ice and snow packed solid on the road for the past few months is melting fast, leaving puddles the size of craters.

By the time I pull onto the main highway and the tires start rolling along the smooth, dry pavement, my teeth feel like they're ready to rattle out of my head.

Trucks as old as this one don't have the same suspension as newer ones. Or the creature comforts.

I glance down to check my speed and notice the fuel gauge. “Asshole. Gas hog,” I say aloud. Then, feeling a bit guilty putting the old truck down, I say, “Actually, you probably get better mileage than my new truck, your tank is just smaller.”

Damn thing saved our life. Call me sentimental, superstitious, but I can't jinx that.

The hardware store is easy enough to find, and Walt introduces himself as soon as I walk in the door. I have a bag full of supplies in no time. I'm done in less time that it would have taken to walk to the hardware section of those big-box stores back in Chicagoland.

Seeing a gas station a block up the road, I head there next, pulling up beside the pump. After filling the tank, I head inside. No longer having a debit card, paying at the pump isn’t an option. There are a couple people ahead of me, so I scan the candy bars and pick out a couple for the boys I know they'll like. One more for me.

Still standing in line, waiting for the cashier to finish showing the customer ahead of me a video of her granddaughter on her cellphone, a rumble makes the windows rattle. The hair on my arms rise as motorcycles, a good dozen of them, swarm into the gas station's lot.

Aiden always claimed to be tight with a large motorcycle gang. Said he'd been a prospect in his younger days and still wore the ink. I never cared one way or the other.

Until now.

Now, I wish I’d paid more attention to Aiden’s tattoos so I could match them up against those on the men outside. Not that I can see many tattoos. These guys are all wearing black leather jackets, cuts as dark as night.

Sweat pops out on my temples as a burly guy climbs off his bike and walks around my truck, eyeing it closely. I think of the gun buried deep in the glove box, how fast I could fish it out if needed.

The man turns, and sees me through the glass. The pulse in my neck pounds spikes in my veins as he walks toward the door. Other bikers are looking at the truck, too.

Fuck.

I glance around, looking for an escape route, which there isn’t.

“Oh, look,” the woman in front of me says. “It’s Sheriff Cahill! Now, we know it's almost spring if he's out riding.”

The door opens and the biker walks in. The logos on his cut say SPLIT HARBOR PD.

I’m not very relieved and try to hide how my fingers tremble, sticking them in my coat pockets. That’s when I realize I’m still holding candy bars in one of them. I drop that hand to my side, squeezing the bars so hard I feel the fucking chocolate melt.

“Hey, Sheriff,” the check out gal says. “Got the day off?”

“Sure do,” the biker answers. “Feels good, let me tell you. Been busting my balls since my old man turned the department over for retirement. And knowing we might not have another day like this in weeks, the boys and I are taking the bikes for a ride.”

“Smart move. How's old Dixon holding up, anyway? Anything I can get for you? Just made fresh coffee in the deli.”

“Nah, I’m fine, and so's dad. He's busy writing a book on that Caspian thing and the Drayton assholes, now that they're out of town. Even Ryan's taking a break from employing half the town to contribute. Says it's good for town history and all. Gonna be a bestseller,” he answers, looking at me. “Enough said, though. I really just want to talk to this guy.”

My heart stops. So do my lungs. With air locked in them like hot coal.

I'm fucking panicking. I never expected the Stone Syndicate to involve the law. Not on this level. A northern Michigan county sheriff? How?

My thoughts go to Adam and Chase at the lodge. I tell myself they're at the safest place they can be. With Cupcake.

“That your truck, stranger?” the sheriff asks.

My lungs are searing, melting. I push out air before I can calmly say, “Yes, sir. Is there something wrong?” It dawns on me then that I’ve never checked the tabs. Just assumed my cousin bought them every year.

“That’s a heavy-ass Chevy. Haven't seen a beast like that in years.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Chevy only made a few, I think. Back in the seventies if I'm not mistaken. Added a few extra springs to their half-tons so they could haul more.”

“That’s correct,” I say. “My grandpa bought it new for the same reason you said.”

My head is about to explode. It's miraculous I'm smiling.

The man nods. “So, you wouldn’t be interested in selling, would you?”

“No, sir. It’ll stay in the family, I'm afraid.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He turns to look out the window again. “That’s a damn good-looking truck. Keep it that way.”

“I do my best,” I tell him, my heart finally thumping a notch slower.

He nods, gives a single finger wave to the cashier and walks back out the door.

My legs turn into rubber and I squish the melting candy bars more by slapping them on the counter to stay upright.

“Anything else I can get you?” the cashier asks. “Fresh coffee in the deli, don't forget.”

“No, thanks.” Not unless she's got a tranquilizer.

I drive all the way back to the lodge with the driver’s window down, trying to cool my body from the amount of hot sweat coating every inch of my skin. Still hot, and sweating bullets, after arriving, I pull the ladder out of the barn and climb up on the side awning to examine a few lose shingles I’d noticed. There might not be another day this weather will let me fix them.

The fresh air helps my body and kicks my brain back to functional. “Goddamn it,” I mumble. I’d never been so scared in my life as I’d been back at that gas station. Nor as jumpy. A part of me wants to run into the house to check on the boys, but there are no new cars in the lot, and deep down, I know they're safe with Tabby.

I also know I can’t see her. Not right now. Not after I thought my worst nightmares were coming true.

If we're together, I'll grab on and hug her tight, just to make sure she’s alive and well.

I consider that for a moment, and then make a mental note to write an informal will, stating if anything happens to me, the boys go to Tabby Danes until she can call my cousin.

It's a scenario I never want to think about, but shit, after what just happened...

No choice. I’ll include Justin’s name on it, he’ll recognize my signature, know it's from me. He’s a damn good lawyer, but I don’t dare contact him. Not yet.

Lifting my head, I stare at the lodge for some time, and then let out the sigh that's grown too heavy to hold in.

There are so many if onlys running through my mind, I’m making myself dizzy. Most have to do with Nelia, her drug addiction, which is how she hooked up with Aiden and then got the idea to start blackmailing me.

I should have left the city then. Got as far away as possible. But I hadn’t.

Now, I’m here. Scared shitless of a local lawman on a bike who just wanted to haggle over my ancient truck.

Fuck.

It’s only a matter of time before everything catches up with me. The Danes are good people. Cupcake and her grandfather, and their cook, Marcy. They’ve made the boys feel at home, more at home than they’ve ever known. Plus they’ve given me this, a chance to make enough money for us to move on. Which is what I need to do so I don't have to consider Plan B and its worst case scenarios.

Tabby and Morris don’t deserve to have monsters on their doorsteps. That’s what’s going to happen. Sooner or later, that will happen, the longer I stay.

I grab the hammer and start pounding, vowing to leave as soon as possible.