He shook his head. “I found them. I just put them back.”

“Oh, good.” She stood there, smiling at him, again struck by how much he reminded her of Becca. “I’m sorry about leaving like that. I think I panicked. I didn’t want him to know that you were here, because of the...” Her voice trailed off.

“Because of what?”

She might as well say it. “Because of the FBI.” She thrust a plastic bag into his hands. “Are you hungry? I saved most of my meal for you. It’s probably not warm anymore, but it’s quite good.”

He set the bag on the coffee table. “The FBI talked to you?”

Claire nodded. “Yes.”

His eyes darted around the room. “Do they know I’m here?”

Claire shook her head. “No, of course not. Unless they’re spying on me.”

He picked up his coat. “They might be. Have you texted anyone about me? Or made any calls?”

“No.”

He zipped his jacket and picked up his backpack. “That’s good. You should deny ever having met me.”

He opened the front door and paused, looking back at her. “It was nice meeting you, Claire.”

“Wait!” she said. “Don’t go yet. I think it’s safe. They came looking for you at the hotel, not here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? What did they say?”

“They didn’t tell me much. They thought I was lying to them about never having a son.”

He nodded, taking another step out the door.

“What is it that they want to talk to you about?” she asked. “Maybe we can clear things up with them?”

He smiled. “I wish it were that simple.”

“Hang on.” Claire picked up the to-go box. “You should at least eat something. If you don’t want this, I can get you something else. I don’t have much food here, but –”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he said. “But I should go.”

“Come on, sit down. At least for a minute. If the FBI knew that you were here, wouldn’t they have caught you by now?”

He frowned. “Yeah...”

Marty seemed to debate this for a moment before finally closing the door and taking a seat on the couch.

Claire let out a sigh. She wasn’t ready for him to run out of her life yet.

She busied herself with getting the leftovers onto a plate. In truth, she’d only taken one bite of her meal. She’d hoped that Marty would still be there when she got back, and purposely ordered something that would reheat well – a fisherman’s pie.

Before he could protest any more, she popped the plate into the microwave and pulled two sodas from the fridge.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” he said taking a sip of the soda.

“What is?”

He cleared his throat. “With the FBI. I’m not dangerous or anything.”