Page 15 of Montana Memory

Hunter drove on, the cityscape stretching endlessly around us. He seemed as solid and unyielding as the mountains in the distance, a man who saw the world in black-and-white while I was stuck in an endless gray.

I absorbed what he’d told me, feeling like I was putting together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. His words should have made things clearer, but instead, they left me with even more questions.

What had I been doing with Alan? How had I let myself be manipulated enough to kidnap someone? And if Hunter didn’t know me, why was he helping me now?

The details swirled in my head, a confusing blend of clarity and chaos. I felt like a character in someone else’s story, abit player in the drama Hunter described. And yet here I was, running from the law with a man who said he didn’t know me, struggling to recognize the shape of my own life.

I pressed my hand against the window, the chill of the glass grounding me. At least it was something I could feel, something solid in a world that had gone fluid and strange.

But it also meant the question I couldn’t escape kept coming to the forefront of my mind. “Should I just turn myself in?”

Hunter’s reaction was immediate and more forceful than anything else he’d said so far. “No. Absolutely not.”

His vehemence startled me. I hadn’t expected him to care so much, not when he’d made it clear he didn’t know me beyond the mess I’d gotten myself into. “But the cops are after me,” I said, my voice wavering between panic and resolve. “I can’t just keep running.”

“You can’t turn yourself in while you can’t remember anything,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “They’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

I flinched at the image, the thought of being at the mercy of the law—or worse, Alan—when I didn’t even know who I was or what I’d done. But wasn’t running worse? Wasn’t it an admission of guilt? I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me, guilt and fear intertwined so tightly that I couldn’t separate them.

“I feel like I should pay for what I did,” I said, almost a whisper. “Like I have to make it right.”

Hunter’s grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles white against the faded black leather. “And you can. But not like this. Not until you know what you’re up against.”

His certainty was a stark contrast to the muddle of my thoughts, a lifeline in a sea of doubt. I wanted to believe him, to let his confidence bolster my own flimsy resolve. But the idea of hiding felt wrong, cowardly.

“What if they catch me first?” I asked, picturing sirens and handcuffs, the shame of being dragged away when all I wanted was to make amends.

“They won’t,” Hunter said, and the finality in his voice almost made me believe it.

Hunter

The garage door of the safe house rumbled shut, sealing us inside. Safe. I should’ve felt relief, but the pressure in my chest didn’t ease. If anything, it pressed down harder, my ribs tight, my lungs slow to catch up.

I kept my hands on the wheel, fingers locked, knuckles aching. If I let go now, they’d shake. The tremors were already creeping in, the warning signs of a PTSD episode flashing bright in my brain—rigid muscles, blurred vision, that electric hum in my veins like a charge waiting to detonate.

I needed to move. Needed to be alone. But I had to make it out of this vehicle and into the house first.

A breath. Then another. I forced my fingers to release their grip, one by one, swallowing against the nausea crawling up my throat. The truck’s interior felt too small, the air thick.

“Hunter?” Jada’s voice was soft, careful.

I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. I already knew what I’d see—concern, exhaustion, something else creeping in at the edges. Something like trust.

I wasn’t the man for that. Not now. Probably not ever.

Talking to her as we drove had taken every bit of focus I had. Now that we were in relative safety, I had very little left in me.

I forced myself out of the truck and over to the door leading inside the house. The keypad was just an arm’s length away, but when I reached for it, my hand didn’t cooperate. My vision went swimmy, the numbers smearing together. I gritted my teeth, blinking fast, forcing my body to obey.

I barely got the code in, my fingers shaking against the keypad. The numbers blurred, edges soft, like my brain was short-circuiting.Get it fucking together, Everett. I forced my hand steady enough to hit the last digit. The lock released with a soft beep, but the sound barely cut through the ringing in my ears.

Jada stepped inside first, hesitant. I followed, shutting the door behind us. Locking it. Locking myself in.

She turned to me, waiting, expectation heavy in the space between us. I didn’t let her get a word out.

“I need to be alone.” My voice came out too sharp, too rough, but I didn’t fix it. “Do whatever you want. Just don’t leave the house. You’re safe here.”

She flinched, just a flicker, but I caught it. The way her shoulders stiffened. The way something inside her pulled back.

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