Chapter 150

Chapter 150
Beck still hadn’t let her go. His hands rested lightly on her arms, steadying her, keeping her in the moment. When her sobs finally slowed, she stepped back, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater.

The cabin was warm now, the smell of burning pine sharp in the air. But the safety she’d once felt here — the soft creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of the wind through the trees — was gone. Every sound felt too loud, every shadow alive.

Beck moved toward the counter, grabbed an old map folded under a stack of guidebooks, and spread it flat across the table. His voice was calm but certain. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “You’re right about that.”

Izzy leaned against the chair, her legs weak. “Where can we even go? He’s got the money to find me anywhere.”

Beck traced his finger along the edges of the map, following the thin veins of highway lines cutting across states. “Then we don’t go anywhere he expects us to. Not Maine, not New Hampshire, not even the coast. We head west. Midwest, maybe. Somewhere quiet, off-grid, where no one gives a damn who you are.”

Izzy blinked at him. “The Midwest?”

He nodded. “Minnesota, maybe. Or the Dakotas. I used to know a guy out there — worked wilderness tours, real salt-of-the-earth type. He owed me a favor or two.”

She hesitated. “Beck, that’s halfway across the country.”

He gave a half-smile, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Good. Then he’ll have to work twice as hard to find you.”

Izzy’s throat felt tight again, though for a different reason this time. “You’d really go that far? For me?”

Beck’s jaw flexed. “You don’t get it, Izzy. I’d go a hell of a lot farther if it meant keeping you safe.”

She dropped her gaze, fingers twisting in her sleeve. “And if he finds us anyway?”

Beck leaned across the table, his voice steady, sure. “Then I deal with him. He’s a man who hides behind money. That kind of power doesn’t mean much out there.”

Izzy followed his gaze to the map, the red state lines blurring a little as tears threatened again. “I don’t even have ID,” she said. “I can’t open a bank account, can’t book a plane, can’t prove who I am.”

Beck gave a short nod. “That’s fine. We’ll drive. I’ve still got cash stashed away from my guiding jobs. Enough to get us started. If we manage it right, it’ll keep us going for months.”

The steadiness in his voice almost made her believe it was possible — that she could just disappear, start over. A different name, a different life.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice small.

Beck’s eyes softened. “Because you deserve a chance to live without looking over your shoulder.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, the storm outside easing into a slow, steady rain.

Izzy stared down at the map, tracing the shape of the country with her eyes. She’d never been farther west than Chicago, but the thought of starting over — of breathing free air again — felt like a small miracle.

Finally, she said, “All right. Midwest.”

Beck nodded once. “We’ll leave before dawn.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay.”

He gathered the map, folding it neatly, tucking it into his jacket. Then he looked at her again, voice softer now. “You should try to rest.”

“Rest,” she repeated with a faint, disbelieving laugh. “Right.”

He smiled — just barely. “Then sit by the fire. I’ll pack what we need.”

Izzy sank into the old chair near the stove, the warmth licking at her damp skin. She watched Beck move around the cabin — the sure, deliberate way he packed supplies, checked the rifle, stowed the map.

And for the first time since she’d seen her own face on that TV screen, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this.
The fire had burned down to embers, their soft red glow pulsing against the cabin walls. Izzy sat curled in Beck’s flannel, legs tucked beneath her, listening to the scrape and shuffle as he moved through the dark. Every sound felt amplified: the zip of a duffel, the metallic click of a flashlight, the low murmur of Beck’s breath when he counted something under it.

For the first time all night, the quiet didn’t feel like peace. It felt like the space before a storm.

Beck dropped a small bundle of cash and a map on the table. “We’ll take the old service road out by dawn. It connects to the highway without passing town.”

She nodded, barely hearing him. Her mind kept replaying Dick’s voice from the television—so calm, so sure. “She’s not herself.” That line crawled under her skin and wouldn’t leave.

“Beck?” Her voice came out small. “What if he’s already—”

A sound cut her off.

Gravel.

The unmistakable crunch of tires rolling slow over the drive.

Beck froze. The flashlight beam snapped upward, catching dust in the air. He killed the light instantly, plunging the room into firelit dimness.

“Stay here,” he whispered.

Izzy’s pulse slammed in her ears. She rose anyway, following him to the window. Beck pulled one curtain aside just enough for a slit of view.

Headlights. Two, then four. A dark vehicle easing down the lane. Another behind it.

Izzy’s stomach dropped. “Oh God.”

“Could be tourists.” But Beck’s tone didn’t believe his own words. He reached behind the door, fingers wrapping around the rifle stock.

The first truck stopped halfway up the drive. Its engine idled, low and menacing, before cutting off. For a heartbeat there was nothing—no movement, no voices, only rain whispering on the roof. Then a door opened and slammed.

Beck mouthed, Back.

Izzy stepped backward until her calves hit the chair. Her knees shook so hard the floor creaked beneath her. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go—just dense forest and cold rain.

Another door shut outside. Footsteps. The crunch of boots.

Beck crouched near the window again, peering through the gap. His shoulders tensed. “Not tourists,” he breathed. “Flashlights. Two men.”

Izzy’s breath hitched. “What do we do?”

He turned, voice steady but urgent. “Pack the last of the food. Quietly. When they circle to the back, we slip out the side door and cut through the trees to the truck.”

Her hands trembled as she stuffed cans and a blanket into the duffel. The zipper sounded impossibly loud. Outside, the crunching moved closer to the porch.

“Beck—” she whispered, panic rising.

“Shh.” He shouldered the rifle, gesturing her toward the side of the cabin. “Go.”

She hesitated at the door. Her reflection in the dark window looked like a ghost—pale face, wide eyes. Then another sound froze her: the sharp creak of the front steps.

Beck moved fast, grabbing her wrist and pulling her through the side exit just as knuckles rapped on the front door.

They slipped into the rain-slick woods, the duffel bumping against Beck’s side, breath fogging in the cold. Behind them, another knock—harder this time—echoed through the night.

Izzy looked back once. Through the trees she saw a figure on the porch, a beam of light sweeping across the windows, catching the glint of wet glass.

Beck tugged her arm. “Keep moving.”

And as they vanished into the dark pines, the front door splintered open behind them.