Page 27 of Their Reluctant Catch

For a second, I think she doesn’t hear me.

Then—her chest rises. Not steady. Not controlled. But she’s trying.

Good.

“Again,” I murmur. “Just like that.”

Her eyes shift, just slightly, like she’s struggling to return to the present.

I lift my hands, palms up. “Can I touch you?”

She blinks, the first real movement I’ve seen from her.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she nods.

Moving slowly, I place my hands over hers and ease her fingers away from her scalp. Her skin is cold. Too cold.

“Breathe,” I say. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

Her next breath is steadier.

The one after that, even more so.

I don’t move away. I don’t let go.

And I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten around mine, holding on like I’m her anchor and a haven, as if she’ll drift off into a vast ocean of fear and nothingness without me.

Chapter12

Todd

Moose Hollow Road curves gently as I drive. I grip the steering wheel tightly as the old van bumps and bucks on the uneven pavement. The street is wide enough for two cars, but traffic is rare.

The houses along this stretch sit far apart, nestled against the trees, their yards still half-buried in snowdrifts despite the slow creep of spring. Lights glow warmly in the windows, illuminating porches still draped with Christmas garlands and strings of red-and-green bulbs. A giant inflatable Santa leans precariously against the MacAllisters’ fence, partially deflated but still grinning.

Despite the situation, I grin, too.

Northwick Cove goes over the top for every holiday. Christmas decorations stay up well into March. May Day will bring flower baskets and ribbons on lampposts. The Fourth of July will see the entire town decked out in flags.

Mel’s house comes into view first, a tidy two-story home with a wide front porch and a snow-covered swing set in the yard. There is no sign of her, her husband or their sons. Owen and Nate are well into their twenties, but with limited job opportunities in town, most people stay with their parents until they marry—if they ever do.

Farther down the road is Karin Winters-Malloy’s place—a larger, older farmhouse with peeling white paint and a sagging front step. The lights are on, and a faint puff of smoke curls from the chimney.

I press the gas a little, the van grumbling as I near the Grayson family farm—a sprawling property of pastureland and stables. Their cattle are tucked inside for the night, but the sheep and goats huddle under the barn’s overhang, their dark shapes barely visible in the fading light.

I adjust my grip on the wheel, glancing toward the trees lining the road. Savannah could be out here somewhere, alone, cold, and?—

No. Not going there.

I roll my shoulders and reach for my phone.

Colton took Rock Harbor Road toward the docks on foot. Poor bastard. It’s getting colder by the minute. At least I’m comfortable.

I’m ready to shoot him a text, when the device starts to shake in my hand.

Jack:

I’ve reached Route 1. Got nothing. If she made it this far, there’s no way of knowing which way she went. Turning back to the B&B.

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