Clearly, with Sanford arranging my schedule and Blythe . . . what is her deal? Well, the point is that I don’t think I’ll be leaving this town over the weekend.

Instead, I’m heading upstairs with a woman who might be running away because she’s sick—or worse, escaping from some sociopath who’s been abusing her. Maybe that’s why she’s been reacting the way she has since I met her. She’s been almost jumping out of her skin, trying to escape.

I shouldn’t assume. It could be something completely different. If it’s the first and she doesn’t want to get treatment, that’s her choice. If it’s the second . . . I need to know what’s after her.

Because if she’s hiding, something—or someone—is hunting her. I need to be ready. I have no intention of letting whatever’s at her heels slip through my door.

I glance at her as we move toward the stairs. She’s quiet, her shoulders tense, like she’s already regretting agreeing to this. Like she’s mapping out an escape route in case I turn out to be a threat, too.

I keep my pace even, giving her space, making sure I don’t crowd her. There’s no fight to win here, no reason to force her hand. But she needs to talk. I need to be prepared for whatever hell she’s dragging through my front door.

The stairs creak beneath our steps, the sound filling the silence between us. She keeps her gaze forward, her fingers twitching at her sides. I don’t know if she’s expecting me to break the quiet or if she’s hoping I won’t.

Either way, I don’t.

We reach the landing, and I push open the apartment door, stepping inside first. She hesitates at the threshold, glancing around like she’s searching for traps or an exit.

I nod toward the couch. “Sit.”

She doesn’t move.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’re not a prisoner, Blythe. You don’t have to stay. But we do have to talk.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “And then you’ll let me go?”

I hold her gaze. “I said I would if that’s your choice.”

Another beat of hesitation, then she steps inside, just far enough for the door to click shut behind her.

I watch as she keeps close to the entrance, shoulders drawn in, eyes darting around like she’s still deciding if she made a mistake. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the fact that she just agreed to step into my apartment—into my space—like it wasn’t the last thing she wanted to do.

I don’t push.