“It’s funny until it’s your life,” she mutters, but there’s a grin behind it. “Anyway, keep Gale’s offer in mind. You can only make so much here or with Atlas—the guy’s just getting started. And the hotels? They’re so expensive because they cater to tourists who buy maple syrup by the gallon or show up for the festivals.”

I don’t reply. Just focus on refilling the pastry display.

Because the truth is, I don’t know what to think of any of them—Delilah, Gale, even Atlas.

Accepting help feels dangerous. Like stepping onto unstable ground.

What if they ask too many questions?

What if they figure out what I’m running from?

What if the money Winston offers is good enough to make them turn me in?

Chapter Six

Henrietta (Blythe)

You can always tell when a man is dangerous.

It’s not just his size or the way he moves—though sometimes, that plays a role. It’s in his presence, the sort that makes you instinctively measure the distance between yourself and the door, the space between his body and yours. It’s in the way he watches, calculating, silent, waiting to see what you’ll do before he makes his move.

That’s the first thing I think when I meet Atlas Timberbridge properly. Yesterday doesn’t count. It can’t. I was feeling exhausted, puking in the trashcan . . . it was a bad moment. Today, though . . . I’m not sure if coming to his shop was a good idea.

When I enter, he doesn’t just look at me. He dissects me. And just like that, I know I should have never stepped foot in this place, maybe not even the town.

Something just doesn’t add up. People are just too nice. This tattoo parlor is too new. The scent of fresh paint and something woodsy—him—lingers in the air, wrapping around me in a way that’s almost suffocating. There’s nothing warm or inviting about it. No signs of comfort. No clutter. No imperfections. Just sleek efficiency and an unsettling level of control.

Atlas looks like a man who has spent his whole life perfecting that control. After Winston, that’s the last thing I want to deal with. Someone to tell me how my clothes have to be aligned perfectly. The shoes placed in boxes that have to be stacked in a certain order. Towels . . . everything had to be methodically folded to precise dimensions, edges perfectly aligned, colors arranged in a gradient that made no difference to anyone but him. Plates had to be centered on the table, silverware set at exact angles, and glasses filled to the same level. Even my own reflection wasn’t mine to control—he dictated what I wore, how I styled my hair, and which shades of lipstick were appropriate for a wife of his status.