I flash a smile so bright it could power the town square’s fairy lights. “Fantastic. I’m sure it was something related to motion sickness—delayed motion sickness?”

Showing that I’m totally fine when I’m not is an art, really—showing people exactly what they want to see. I learned at a young age. Mom might’ve not taught me how to look after myself, but she taught me things that have been useful during my adulthood. And, of course, my dear husband made sure I mastered it.

By nine, the café is quieter than I expected. The early crowd has disappeared, leaving behind a handful of regulars who sip their coffee and thumb through newspapers like Birchwood Springs is the only world that matters.

I envy them.

For me, the outside world feels uncomfortably close. The thought of being found lurks at the edges of my mind, keeping me alert. Even here, in this cozy, sunlit café that smells of cinnamon and fresh bread, I can’t shake the feeling that someone might walk through that door and drag me back to the life I left behind.

“Relax, Blythe,” Delilah had said earlier, tossing me an apron just before she flipped the sign to Open. “You don’t need to look over your shoulder.”

I scoffed, forcing a laugh. “Of course not. Why would I be worried about someone finding me? No one’s looking for me.”

The lie came too easily, effortless as breathing. And just as involuntary.

Maybe it’s too soon to start planning my next move—find an even smaller town, something impossible to pin on a map. But the thought lingers, curling around the edges of my mind like smoke, impossible to ignore.

The bell above the door jingles, snapping me back into the present. I glance up just as a woman with dark hair and a kind smile steps inside, followed closely by a man whose gaze sweeps the café like he’s taking inventory of every detail.

The woman moves with confidence, heading straight for the counter. Her attention lands on me, her curiosity obvious. “Morning, Del. I’ll take my usual, please.”

Delilah nudges me with a grin. “Blythe, meet Galeana—my best friend. Her usual is a lavender latte and the pastry of the day.”

“Any pastry, really,” Galeana adds with a laugh, her voice warm, effortless. “I’m Gale. Nice to meet you . . . what did you say her name was?”

“This is Blythe,” Delilah says, turning back to her. “She’s working with us temporarily.” Then, her gaze shifts to the man beside Gale. “And this is Malerick Timberbridge. The sheriff.”

My attention snaps to him, surprised.

Sheriff?

He doesn’t look like the ones I’ve encountered over the last couple of years. They’ve always been older, pushing sixty, sporting Santa Claus beards and tired eyes that don’t miss much—mostly because there isn’t much to miss in small towns.