Page 17 of Montana Memory

I had so many questions about myself, but I had a bunch about Hunter too. How did he even have a safe house? This obviously wasn’t some ordinary place.

It was stocked—cans, boxes, bags of food lining the shelves and fresh clothes, new with tags, stacked in a closet. Nothing fit me right, but after stripping off my stolen clothes, I pulled on a pair of too-big sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. It felt good to be clean, even if the fabric sagged against my frame. I was surprised to notice my own clothes on the counter; Hunter must have grabbed them after I’d changed at the hospital, so I threw them and the scrubs in the wash. Then I turned to investigate my new surroundings.

I ended up in the kitchen, staring at the rows of food, and it hit me—I had no idea what I liked. Not just what I wanted to eat, but anything. Did I prefer sweet or salty? Coffee or tea? Beer or wine? It was a stupid thing to fixate on, but it settled into my brain, lodged there like a splinter.

And since it looked like Hunter wouldn’t be coming out any time soon, I started testing.

I popped the tab on a can of soda, let the bubbles fizz against my tongue. Root beer—too sweet. Cola—better. Lemon-lime—perfect. I wrote it down.

I tried crackers, cookies, peanut butter straight from the jar. Sipped wine—red, too dry; white, better. Beer was disgusting. Another note.

I made scrambled eggs, grilled cheese, boiled pasta just to see if I liked the texture. Ate until my stomach hurt, not because I was hungry, but because I needed to know.

I finally gave in and lay down again, exhausted but still restless. I expected to wake up to nothing, to a blank slate like the day before.

But I remembered. I didn’t even have to look at my notes; every like or dislike, I remembered. I remembered everything that had happened at the hospital. I remembered what Hunter had told me about Alan Ard and kidnapping Kenzie Hurst.

Nothing before waking up in the cabin three days ago, but I knew I liked lemon-lime soda and white wine and hated beer. And somehow, that felt like a win.

Until all the other thoughts crashed back in about what I’d done. Hunter’s statements had given me enough information to leave me with millions of other questions and the burning notion that I was someone I might not want to remember. I didn’t even have the full picture. Just jagged pieces that didn’t make sense, that painted me in the ugliest colors imaginable.

I needed more. A computer, a phone—something that would let me look myself up, dig through whatever digital footprint I’d left behind. If I was going to face the truth, I needed all of it, not just scraps. But there was nothing here.

I glanced toward the hallway, toward the room Hunter had disappeared into last night. He hadn’t come out, hadn’t made a sound. Was he okay? Was he even still here?

I told myself I didn’t care. He was a stranger after all. A man who had saved my life, yes, but not someone I knew.

Except, I did care. And when that door finally creaked open midmorning, my breath caught before I could stop it.

Hunter stood there, freshly showered, dark hair still damp, the sharp angles of his face clean-shaven. He looked better than last night—less ghostly, more solid—but there was still something off. A lingering paleness under his tanned skin. A slight tension in his shoulders.

“You’re alive,” I muttered, voice rough.

His lips twitched like he might’ve smiled under different circumstances. “Sorry for leaving you alone.”

He didn’t say anything else.

I wasn’t sure why that frustrated me so much. It wasn’t like I was owed an explanation. But something about the way he avoided my gaze, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, told me something had happened. And he wasn’t going to tell me what. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, filled with things we weren’t saying.

We were two people trapped in a place that wasn’t ours, drowning in pasts that wouldn’t let go.

I crossed my arms, trying to ignore the strange pull in my chest. “Well, welcome back.”

“Thanks.” He walked toward the kitchen, and I followed him. I cringed when I looked around. I hadn’t realized how big a mess I’d left until Hunter stepped into it.

Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, the countertops covered in half-used ingredients, open boxes, and a graveyard of discarded taste tests. Empty soda cans, crumpled napkins, a streak of peanut butter smeared across the edge of the stove. It looked like a raccoon had broken in and gone on a bender.

I winced. “I, uh…was figuring out what I like.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How’d it go?”

I shrugged. “Lemon-lime soda for the win. Coffee with sugar but no cream. Creamy peanut butter over crunchy.”

“Sounds like a productive night.”

“I was going to clean up,” I muttered, heat climbing up my neck. “I forgot.”

He didn’t even look at me as he rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll help.”

---