The sign for Blackwood Creek was rusted and leaning to the left. The bus rattled past it as rain lashed against the windows, harder now than before. The town looked gray, industrial, and dying. Boarded-up storefronts mixed with dull brick buildings. The streetlights were few and far between, casting long, eerie shadows on the wet pavement.

The bus hissed to a halt at the only station in town-a gas station with a covered bench.

Hoyt stood up before the bus had even fully stopped. He grabbed his duffel bag and marched down the aisle, ignoring Eva completely. He stepped off the bus and into the deluge.

Eva followed. She stepped down onto the curb and immediately sank her foot into a deep, freezing puddle. The cold water soaked through her sneaker and sock instantly.

She gasped, pulling her foot back. She looked around. The gas station was closed. The town was dark. There was no one around.

Hoyt walked to a black pickup truck parked in the shadows. He unlocked it, the lights flashing amber. He opened the door and tossed his bag inside.

Then he paused. He looked back.

Eva was standing on the curb, hugging her backpack, looking completely lost. The rain was plastering her hair to her skull. She looked like a drowned rat.

Hoyt slammed his truck door shut. He didn't get in. Instead, he marched back toward her, his boots splashing through the puddles. He loomed over her, blocking the rain with his sheer size.

"Who sent you?" he barked. "The Feds? A creditor? Who are you looking for?"

Eva trembled. Water dripped from the tip of her nose. She was shaking so hard her teeth were about to chatter.

She reached into her pocket for her phone.

Hoyt's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was bruising. "I said, who sent you?"

Eva winced in pain. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror. She wasn't a spy. She was just a girl trying not to die.

Hoyt saw the genuine fear in her eyes. It wasn't the look of someone caught in a lie; it was the look of a prey animal cornered by a predator. He released her wrist abruptly, as if her skin burned him.

Eva fumbled with her phone. The screen was cracked. She opened her map app-the one she'd saved for offline use-and held it up to him. The destination pin was dropped on a location a few miles away: Mrs. Rose's Fruit Stand.

Hoyt stared at the screen. He blinked, the aggression draining out of his face, replaced by confusion.

"Mrs. Rose?" he asked, his voice skeptical. "You know Mrs. Rose?"

Eva nodded vigorously.

Hoyt looked at her, then at the time on his watch. "It's three in the morning. She's closed. She's asleep."

Eva looked at the phone, then back at him, helpless.

Hoyt ran a hand over his wet face. He looked angry at the situation, angry at her, angry at himself. He pointed down the dark, slick road.

"The motel is a mile that way. It's a dump, but it has a roof."

Eva looked where he was pointing. It was pitch black. The rain was coming down in sheets. Her leg was throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. A mile walk in this condition was impossible.

She looked back at Hoyt, pleading with her eyes.

Hoyt hardened his jaw. He turned his back on her. "Not my problem."

He walked back to his truck. He opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat.

Eva watched him go. A lump formed in her throat, hot and painful. She turned and started walking toward the darkness of the road.

Her bad leg gave out on the third step. Her knee buckled, unable to support her weight on the slick pavement. She stumbled, catching herself on a lamppost.

Inside the truck, Hoyt watched her in his rearview mirror. He saw her stumble. He saw her drag her leg.

"Dammit," he cursed, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.

Eva dragged her leg, the pain blinding. It shot up her thigh and settled in her hip. A car sped past, splashing a wave of dirty, gritty water over her legs.

She lost her balance and fell onto the muddy sidewalk. Her hands sank into the cold sludge. Her sketchbook, inside the backpack, dug into her spine.

She tried to stand, but her knee locked up. It was done. Her body had reached its limit.

She curled into a ball on the sidewalk, pulling her knees to her chest, shielding her face from the rain. She closed her eyes and waited. Maybe the cold would take her. Maybe it would be better than the harvest.

Headlights cut through the darkness behind her. Bright, white beams illuminated the rain.

A truck pulled up alongside her. The engine idled with a deep, throaty rumble.

The passenger window rolled down.

"Get in," Hoyt's voice barked out. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.

Eva looked up, mud smeared on her cheek. She hesitated. Stranger danger screamed in her head. This man was aggressive, paranoid, and scary.

Hoyt leaned over the center console. "I'm not asking. Get in or freeze to death. Your choice."

Eva scrambled up. She grabbed the door handle and pulled. The heavy door swung open.

She climbed into the high cab. The interior was warm, blasting heat. It smelled of leather and old tobacco. It felt like a sanctuary.

She sat on the edge of the seat, trying not to touch anything with her muddy clothes. She was dripping wet, shivering violently.

Hoyt reached into the back seat and grabbed a rough, gray towel. He threw it at her. It landed on her head.

"Dry off," he grunted. "Don't ruin my seats."

Eva pulled the towel down and wiped her face. Her skin was pale, her lips blue. She dried her hair as best she could.

Hoyt watched her for a second, his eyes tracking the tremors that racked her small frame. He reached out and cranked the heater up to the maximum setting. Hot air blasted against her legs.

He put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.

"The motel is a dump," he said, staring straight ahead at the road. "I'm not leaving a kid there. I'm taking you to the shop."

Eva's eyes widened in alarm. The shop?

Hoyt caught her look in his peripheral vision. "Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you, kid."

Kid.

He said the word with a deliberate emphasis. He was drawing a line. He was the adult; she was the child. He was the protector; she was the charity case.

Eva relaxed slightly. The term made her feel small, but it also made her feel safe. Predators didn't call their victims "kid."

She pulled out her phone and typed: Thank you.

She held it up for him to see.

Hoyt glanced at it, then back at the road. He didn't smile. He didn't say "you're welcome." He just gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"Don't thank me," he muttered. "I'm just doing what Nana would want."

The rain hammered on the roof of the truck, a deafening noise, but inside the cab, Eva was finally dry. She leaned her head back against the seat and let the heat seep into her bones.

The truck pulled into a gravel lot. A neon sign buzzed overhead, the red letters flickering against the rain: Ayers Garage & Ink.

Hoyt killed the engine. The silence in the cab was sudden and heavy.

He turned to Eva. "Stay close to me. Don't touch anything."

They exited the truck. Eva stepped onto the gravel, the stones crunching under her sneakers. The air smelled of oil, rain, and a faint, metallic scent that reminded her of blood.

Hoyt unlocked a metal side door and ushered her inside.

The garage was vast. It was a cavern of concrete and steel. Motorcycles in various stages of repair were scattered around on lifts. Tools lined the walls in organized chaos. Rock music played from a speaker in the corner, low and gritty.

Eva looked around, her eyes wide. Hoyt led her past the bikes to a cleaner office area enclosed in glass. He pointed to a worn leather chair.

"Sit."

Eva sat, clutching her knees to her chest.

Hoyt walked to a mini-fridge in the corner. He grabbed a bottle of water, cracked the seal, and handed it to her.

Eva took it and drank greedily, the cool water soothing her parched throat.

Hoyt leaned against a heavy metal desk, crossing his ankles. As he did, his canvas jacket shifted, and for a fraction of a second, Eva saw it. Tucked into a holster on his belt, pressed against his lower back, was the black grip of a handgun. Her breath hitched. The memory of guards at the estate, the guns they carried, the threat of violence that always hovered over Kingsley's world-it all came rushing back.

Hoyt noticed her gaze drop. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her body tensed. He instinctively straightened up, his jacket falling back into place, concealing the weapon.

"It's for snakes," he said, his voice flat. "We get water moccasins from the creek. Nasty bastards."

Eva looked at him. She didn't believe him. You didn't need a semi-automatic pistol for snakes. But she nodded anyway.

He watched her drink.

"Mrs. Rose is your... what?" he asked.

Eva lowered the bottle. She typed on her phone: Grandmother.

Hoyt raised an eyebrow. "Nana? Nana never mentioned a granddaughter. She talks about her cat more than she talks about people."

Eva looked down at her lap. Shame colored her cheeks. Of course Nana didn't talk about her. Eva was the secret. The shame. The daughter of the woman who ran away.

Hoyt watched her reaction. He saw the shame. He realized there was a family secret here, a deep, ugly wound.

He decided not to pry. Not yet.

Voices echoed from the bay area outside the office. The heavy roll-up door was opening.

"Hoyt! You in here?" a voice yelled.

Hoyt straightened up. "Stay here," he told Eva. But it was too late. Two men walked into the office.