Forty-two days of following dead ends and cold trails and a U.S. Marshal who’s better at disappearing than I gave him credit for.
I’ve tracked Saul Bennett across three states. Arizona. New Mexico. Nevada. Watched him visit witnesses I don’t care about in cities that don’t matter. Sat outside safe houses and apartment complexes and shitty motels waiting for a glimpse of Stevie that never comes.
She’s not in any of them.
Every empty apartment feels like losing her again. Every witness who isn’t Stevie makes me want to put my fist through something.
I’m running on coffee and rage and the memory of her saying my name in a voice that sounded like a promise.
A promise I couldn’t keep.
But he shook me four times. Deliberately. The kind of evasive driving that says he knew I was there and wanted me gone.
Which means he’s protecting someone he cares about more than the others. Which means I’m getting close.
Colorado is different.
I feel it the moment he crosses the state line. Something in the way he drives, less careful, more eager. Like he’s heading somewhere he wants to be instead of somewhere the job requires.
Small mountain town. The kind of place with one main street and a coffee shop that probably closes at 6 PM. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone and strangers get noticed.
The kind of place you’d hide someone you wanted to keep safe.
Saul parks on the main street. Gets out. Stretches like a man who’s been driving for hours and is finally home.
Home.
That’s what this is. I can see it in his body language. The relaxation. The ease.
This is where he comes when he’s not working.
I park down the block. Kill the engine. Watch.
He walks toward a storefront. Blue, bright and cheerful, impossible to miss. Hand-painted sign above it: The Blue Door.
A bakery.
This has to be her.
She’s baking. Wherever she is, whatever name she’s using, she’s baking. Because that’s who she is. That’s what she does when she’s scared or happy or falling apart.
Saul opens the door and walks in like he belongs there.
I sit in my car and count my heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
Any minute now. Any minute I’ll see her.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
The door opens.
And there she is.
Stevie.
Blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. Flour on her apron. Moving with that specific grace I’d recognize anywhere. The way she tilts her head, the way her hands never stop moving, the way she exists in space like she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to take up room.
She’s carrying a tray of something. Sets it on one of the outdoor tables. Arranges whatever’s on it with the particular care she gives to everything she bakes.
