Her truck sat outside the back window—which explained how she’d gotten here. Martin’s old beater looked like a rusted hulk beside it, plugged in to the block heater via a long orange extension cable so that the engine didn’t freeze in the extreme cold.

Her eyebrows scrunched. She’d never drink and drive—maybe someone else had taken the wheel? Had Martin driven her truck because she’d been too drunk on a thimble-full of whisky to get home? She looked at the glasses she’d brought through from the living room. If so, why give her more alcohol when they got back here?

The fact she couldn’t remember was the most worrisome part of this. Darby liked facts and logic, but nothing was making sense. She dried her hands on the dish towel hanging off the stove and tried not to turn up her nose at the state of the limp rag. This wasn’t her house. The cleanliness of the kitchen was not her problem.

Martin might have already left, caught a ride with one of the others or walked into the Institute as he often did. Perhaps Darby hadn’t been the only one sleeping over last night? Maybe someone else had been drinking the whisky… That made a lot more sense.

She walked back into the living room and picked up her coat, unsure of what to do. What if Martin was sick?

She chewed her lip, uncertain. Eight months ago, she wouldn’t have had a second thought about yelling up the stairs or waking him. Now she was always second guessing herself, second guessing the consequences.

She squared her shoulders. She’d go upstairs, knock on the door and thank him for use of the couch. Make sure he was okay. If he wasn’t here, he wouldn’t know, so she wouldn’t need to feel awkward or embarrassed for snooping around uninvited.

Had she made a complete fool of herself last night? It shouldn’t matter so much, but after everything that had happened last summer, her dignity was important to her. Vital even. Right next to her sanity.

She forced herself to move. Her sock-covered feet whispered silently over the polished floorboards.

“Martin?” She bounded noisily up the stairs, wanting to warn the guy she was approaching, especially as he might not be alone.

She hit the top level and realized she had no clue which room was his. She knocked on the first door and eased it slowly open. Inside was a twin bed and two desks crammed in along with gaming chairs. Man, she must have been totally wasted to not even make it up the stairs to the spare room. She knocked on the second door and it swung open.

A musky scent lingered in the air. She wrinkled her nose. Sweat, dirty laundry, and something else…

“Martin? Are you in here?” She peeked around the wall and spotted the end of a bed. A rumpled duvet covered what looked like the bump of feet, so she was probably in the right spot. The feet didn’t stir, despite all the noise she was making. She took another reluctant step forward and tapped on the wall. “Hey.” She raised her voice. “Thanks for letting me crash here last night. Sorry I passed out on you. As you know, I’m not used to alcohol.”