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I woke up wrong.
Not in a bed. On a couch that smelled like gun oil and old leather. My mouth tasted like copper and something bitter I couldn't name. My ribs ached where Derek kicked me three days ago. Or was it four?
The cabin was smaller in daylight. One room, maybe twenty feet across. A woodstove in the corner, still warm. A table with two chairs. And the walls.
Silver everywhere.
Knives. Blades. Things with edges I didn't have names for. They hung on hooks, laid out on a pegboard like someone's sick tool collection. Some of them had dark stains near the hilts.
I sat up too fast. The room tilted.
"Don't."
The voice came from behind me. I twisted around and there he was. The man from the rest stop. Tall. Maybe six-two. Dark hair pulled back, stubble along his jaw. He stood by the door with his arms crossed, watching me like I might bolt.
I wanted to.
"Where's my phone?" My voice came out rough. When did I last drink water?
"Counter." He didn't move. "Battery's dead."
I looked. There it was, next to a cracked charging cable and an empty coffee mug. The screen was black.
"You went through it."
"No."
"Liar."
His jaw tightened. "If I wanted your contacts I would've taken them. I don't."
I stood up. My legs shook but I locked my knees and made myself stay upright. "Then what do you want?"
"For you to leave."
That stopped me. I expected a lot of things. That wasn't one of them.
"Seriously?"
"Soon as you can walk a mile without passing out." He pushed off the doorframe and moved to the table. There was a map spread out, edges curled. He tapped a spot with two fingers. "There's a bus stop here. Greyhound runs through twice a day. You take it, you don't come back, we're done."
I stared at him. At the map. At the knives on the walls.
"You're just going to let me go."
"That's what I said."
"After you dragged me into your serial killer cabin."
His eyes flicked up. Cold. Gray. The kind of gray that made you think of frozen lakes. "You collapsed in the rain. I brought you inside. That's it."
"With all the knives."
"I collect them."
"That's not creepy at all."
He didn't smile. Didn't even blink. Just turned back to the map and traced a line with his finger. "You've got about six miles to cover. Road's paved most of the way. If you start in the morning you'll make the noon bus."
I should've said thank you. Should've grabbed my phone and counted my luck. But my feet stayed planted and my mouth opened before I could stop it.
"What's your name?"
He didn't answer right away. Then, quiet: "Cain."
"Like the Bible guy."
"Like the Bible guy."
I wrapped my arms around myself. The cabin was warm but I couldn't stop shaking. "I'm Layla."
"I know."
My stomach dropped. "How?"
"Your ID. It fell out of your pocket."
Right. My wallet. I patted my jeans. Still there. I pulled it out and checked. Driver's license, debit card, seven dollars cash. All there.
I looked up. He was watching me again.
"You didn't take anything."
"No."
"Why not?"
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something harder. "Because I'm not him."
The air went out of the room.
I didn't ask who he meant. Didn't need to. He saw Derek. Or he guessed. Maybe it was the bruises. Maybe the way I flinched when I woke up.
"I should eat something," I said. My voice came out too small.
Cain nodded toward the counter. "Bread's in the box. Peanut butter's next to it. Help yourself."
I moved slow, keeping him in my peripheral vision. The bread was cheap white sandwich stuff, the kind that squished when you touched it. The peanut butter jar was half-empty. I made myself a sandwich and ate standing up.
It tasted like dust but I finished it anyway.
Cain stayed by the table. He hadn't moved. Hadn't said anything. Just stood there with his arms crossed, staring at that map like it had answers.
I swallowed the last bite. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends."
"Why do you have all the knives?"
His shoulders went stiff. For a second I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he turned and looked straight at me.
"I used to hunt."
"Hunt what?"
"Things that needed hunting."
That wasn't an answer. That was a door slamming shut.
I set the peanut butter jar down. My hands were still shaking. "And now?"
"Now I don't."
"But you kept the knives."
"Habit."
I didn't believe him. But I didn't push. I just wiped my hands on my jeans and walked toward the couch. My legs felt steadier. The food helped.
That's when I saw it.
A phone. Not mine. His. It was sitting on the windowsill, screen facing up. And it was lit.
I froze.
Cain saw me looking. His whole body shifted. Not toward me. Toward the phone.
"Don't," he said.
But I already had. I crossed the room in three steps and snatched it off the sill.
The screen showed a news site. Local. The headline was small but I caught it anyway.
*MISSING: Layla Quinn, 26, last seen...*
My blood turned to ice.
Cain moved fast. He grabbed my wrist and pulled the phone out of my hand before I could scroll.
I yanked back. Hard.
He let go like I burned him.
We stood there. Three feet apart. Both breathing too fast.
"He filed a report," I whispered.
Cain's face was stone. "Yesterday."
"He's looking for me."
"Yeah."
I backed up until my spine hit the wall. My brain was spinning. Derek filed missing. That meant cops. That meant search. That meant he was out there right now, playing the worried boyfriend, telling everyone I ran off, telling them I wasn't stable.
Telling them I needed help.
"I can't go to the bus stop," I said. My voice cracked. "If he's looking—if they're looking—"
"Then you leave tonight."
I stared at him. "In the dark?"
"Better than waiting for daylight."
"I don't even know where I am."
"You're forty miles south of where you started. He's looking north. You go west, you stay off main roads, you'll be fine."
Fine. Right. I'd be fine. In the woods. In the dark. With no plan and seven dollars.
I laughed. It came out sharp and broken.
Cain's jaw tightened again. "You can't stay here."
"I know."
"If he finds you—"
"I know."
"If anyone finds you—"
"I said I know!" My voice bounced off the walls. Off the knives. Off the man standing three feet away looking at me like I was a bomb about to go off.
Silence.
Then, from somewhere outside, a sound. Faint. Far off.
A car engine.
Cain's head snapped toward the window. His whole body went rigid.
"Get in the back room," he said. Low. Flat. The kind of voice that didn't leave room for questions.
I didn't move.
"Now."
I ran.
The back room was barely big enough to stand in. A cot. A trunk. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling. I pressed myself into the corner and held my breath.
Through the wall I heard the car get closer. Then stop.
A door slammed.
Footsteps. Heavy. Slow.
A knock.
I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood.
Cain's voice, muffled: "Help you?"
Another voice. Male. Unfamiliar. "Sheriff's department. We're canvassing the area. You seen this woman?"
Silence.
Then Cain: "No."
"You sure? Last ping on her phone was about ten miles from here."
"I'm sure."
"Mind if I take a look around?"
"Yeah. I do."
A pause. Long enough I thought my heart would break a rib.
Then: "Alright. You see her, you call this number."
"Will do."
Footsteps. The car door again. The engine starting.
I stayed frozen until the sound faded completely.
When I finally came out, Cain was standing in the middle of the room holding a business card. He looked at me. Then at the card.
Then he walked to the woodstove and dropped it in.
The edges curled. Turned black. Gone.
"They'll be back," he said.
I wrapped my arms around myself. "I'm sorry."
"Don't."
"I didn't mean to bring this to—"
"I said don't." He turned and looked at me. Really looked. His eyes weren't cold anymore. They were something worse. Tired. "You leave tonight. I'll take you as far as the county line. After that you're on your own."
I should've argued. Should've said something. But all I could do was nod.
Cain grabbed his jacket off the chair and shrugged it on. "Get your things. We leave in an hour."
I went back to the couch and picked up my phone. Still dead. I shoved it in my pocket anyway.
That's when I heard it.
Cain's phone. Still on the windowsill. It buzzed once.
I looked over.
The screen lit up with a new notification. A news alert.
*UPDATE: Missing woman's boyfriend holds press conference. "I just want her home safe."*
And below it, smaller: *Derek Morris appeals to public for help.*
I felt the floor drop out from under me.
Cain saw it too. He crossed the room and picked up the phone. Read the screen. His face didn't change but his knuckles went white around the case.
"He's not just looking," I whispered. "He's making himself the victim."
Cain didn't answer.
He just looked at me. Then at the knives on the wall.
Then back at me.
And I knew.
Whatever happened next, I wasn't getting out of this clean.