I hesitate, the words forming before I fully decide to speak. “Actually . . . do you need any help around here? I mean, part-time or anything? Just for a couple of weeks while I find something a little more solid or decide where to go.”

Delilah studies me for a moment, her gaze shrewd yet kind. “We could probably use an extra pair of hands during the morning rush. You sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m sure,” I reply, a flicker of excitement sparking in my chest. “When should I start?”

“How about tomorrow? Six sharp.”

I nod, smiling despite myself. “Sounds good.”

As I fidget with the sugar packet in front of me, I glance up and ask, “Where’s the nearest hotel? One that’s cheap.”

Her expression shifts slightly, a trace of concern slipping through. “Are you in danger?” she asks.

“No,” I answer, maybe too fast, but the lie tumbles out as effortlessly as it always does. “I just don’t like to stay in one place.” The words come so naturally now that no one ever questions them.

Delilah doesn’t press further, but I can sense her quiet skepticism. Maybe she thinks: This poor woman is just not taking life seriously and would rather be backpacking aimlessly through the country without any responsibilities.

And I let people believe so, because the other option might get too much attention. Attention I don’t need now, or ever.

Chapter Three

Atlas

I should’ve flown and had my SUV shipped instead of driving from Seattle in three grueling days. Should I have stopped in Buffalo instead of pushing straight from Minneapolis to Birchwood Springs? Probably. But what’s done is done. I’m here.

Though, to be perfectly honest, it’s early. Too fucking early for someone who’s been driving all night. My plans for today are having some coffee and breakfast and then heading to the old house for a nap. I might need to stay there temporarily while I find something more suitable. An apartment, a home. Sanford mentioned something about a studio or . . . I really can’t remember what he said about the place above the tattoo parlor.

Sure, I designed the interior, but he’s the one who bought the ‘small building,’ as he called it, and paid a stupid amount of money to have everything done in less than two months. Who does that? A bored musician with too much time and money on his hands, that’s who.

Maybe I’ll check if the upstairs can act like an apartment. In the meantime, I’ll have to deal with my brothers. Though, if Ledger so much as hints that I’m not welcome in our childhood home, I swear I’ll punch him so hard he won’t be waking up anytime soon.