Page 130 of In Shadows We Dance

Yesterday, I was in a motel room, my mother’s silent nod giving me permission to run. Now, I’m here. Hiding for different reasons, but still hiding.Alwayshiding.

When I finally reach the end of the alley, I pause, peering around the corner. The diner’s light is too bright against the cold gray dawn. A truck idles outside, steam hissing from its exhaust. I catch faint voices from inside. Truckers, maybe? Early risers who haven’t had enough sleep.

The smell hits me next. Coffee. Bacon. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, but I can’t move. I hover at the edge of the street, torn between hunger and the certainty that stepping inside might be a mistake I can’t undo.

I need food. I need rest. I need to think.

But I don’t belong in places like this. I’m not used to people,to strangers looking too long or asking too many questions. Every normal thing—every sound, every face—is overwhelming, too much all at once.

I can’t do this.

But what choice do I have?

I tug the hood lower over my head, forcing my feet to move. My hands are shaking when I push the door open, the bell chiming overhead. The sound makes me flinch. It’s too loud. I expect someone to turn and stare, to demand answers, tosee me.

No one does.

I find the farthest empty booth, away from the windows and door, curling my shoulders inward, and wedging my backpack between me and the wall. The seat feels too big, the space around me too open. I can’t stop looking at the door, the windows, the other customers. A man at the counter stirs his coffee. A woman in the corner soothes her baby.

It’s normal. Ordinary.Too ordinary.

“Morning, sweetheart,” a voice says, and I jump. A waitress is standing beside me, notepad ready, her smile faint but kind. “What can I get you?”

The words stick in my throat. My fingers curl under the table, pressing into the sleeves of Wren’s hoodie.

“Just coffee.” My fingers brush against the money in my pocket, and I calculate how much I can afford, then force out the next words before I lose my nerve. “And maybe some toast.”

She gives me a look—a split second of something unreadable—but doesn’t ask questions. “Coming right up.”

I exhale shakily when she walks away, my gaze moving back to the window. The sky is starting to lighten, the first hints of dawn breaking over the horizon.

Closing my eyes, I let the warmth of the diner seep into my bones.

I’m not safe. Not yet. But I’m here. And I’m holding on.

My pulse pounds in my ears, the noise of the diner too loud, tooclose. I wrap my hands around the coffee when it comes, theheat burning my palms but grounding me. I sip it slowly, feeling it burn its way down, bitter and strong, and force myself to eat the toast. Each bite is hard to swallow, but I don’t stop.

There’s a payphone near the door. It’s old, scratched, the kind of thing no one uses anymore. I stare at it, my mind pulling together a fragile, desperate thought.

Wren.

He’s out there. I know it. But hope alone won’t bring him to me. The roses and shoes were a starting point, breadcrumbs at best. Now I need to find a way to give him a direction, something solid he can chase.

What if he has a landline?

People list those, don’t they? If I could find internet access—somewhere public, somewhere quiet—I might be able to track him. A library, maybe, or an internet cafe. Wren’s house must be listed somewhere. It could be a waste of time, but it’s better than just waiting around to be found.

I push the plate away, my stomach full enough to dull the hunger but still aching. The sky outside is brighter. Daylight is a threat, the kind I can’t outrun.

I count out just enough to cover the coffee and toast, leaving a small tip that won’t raise questions, then hurry back outside.

One step at a time.

Wren will find me. I trust him to see the path I left, to follow the thread I’m desperately trying to hold on to.

Until then, I’ll keep running.

CHAPTER 66

---