The bus coughed and rattled as it rolled into the little town just after sunrise, its engine echoing down empty streets. Mireille Voss blinked against the pale morning light, her eyes dry from sleeplessness. The town was called Haven Bay a name that sounded safe, almost like a promise. She knew better than to trust promises, but she needed somewhere to hide, and the map at the bus station said this was as far as her ticket would take her.
She watched through the window as the bus passed rows of weathered houses, their shutters closed tight against the sea wind. White picket fences, tangled rose bushes, laundry lines strung with faded shirts. Everything looked ordinary, untouched by the darkness she'd left behind. It felt like she was entering another world, one that didn't know her name or her secrets.
The bus shuddered to a stop at a small terminal near the harbor. Mireille stood and slung her threadbare backpack over her shoulder. She waited until the last of the other passengers had stepped off an old fisherman with a limp, a mother herding two sleepy children before she followed them into the dawn.
The air smelled of salt and promise, tinged with the faint trace of diesel from the fishing boats bobbing in the marina. Mireille pulled her jacket tighter, trying to keep out the cold, and stood for a moment on the cracked pavement, unsure of her next move.
A handwritten sign on the terminal wall read: "Welcome to Haven Bay." Beneath it, a notice board listed local events: "Farmers' Market on Saturdays," "Open Mic Night at The Anchor Bar," "Yoga at Sunrise All Levels Welcome." Mireille's lips twisted in a wry smile. It was almost too quaint, this place. She wondered how long it would take before the shadows caught up to her here.
She crossed the street to a small café, its sign swinging in the morning breeze. The smell of coffee and fresh bread pulled her inside. The place was nearly empty, save for a gray-haired man in a faded flannel shirt hunched over the newspaper and a young waitress wiping down tables.
Mireille slid into a corner booth, her back to the wall out of instinct. The waitress approached, offering a weary but genuine smile.
"Morning. Haven't seen you around before. Passing through?"
Mireille hesitated, then nodded. "Just arrived. Is there a place to stay nearby?"
"There's the Harbor View down the road nothing fancy, but clean. You want coffee?"
"Yes, please. And something to eat."
"Coming right up."
Mireille watched the waitress move behind the counter, her easy confidence a sharp contrast to Mireille's own nerves. She tried to relax, letting her gaze wander to the window. Outside, the town was waking up: a dog trotted past, a delivery truck rumbled by, gulls shrieked above the docks. It was hard to imagine the kind of danger she'd left behind finding her here. Still, she couldn't let herself believe she was safe.
The waitress returned with a steaming mug and a plate of toast. "Sugar's on the table. My name's Rowan, by the way. If you need anything, just ask."
Mireille offered a quiet thank you, adding sugar to her coffee. The warmth seeped into her hands, calming her a little. She sipped slowly, forcing herself to eat despite her churning stomach. She needed to blend in, to become just another face in the crowd.
Rowan returned, leaning on the back of the booth. "You looking for work, by any chance? Marina's always hiring, especially this time of year."
Mireille shook her head. "Not yet. Maybe after I get settled."
Rowan nodded, not pressing. "Well, if you need directions or anything, let me know."
Mireille managed a small smile. "Thanks."
As Rowan drifted away, Mireille let out a shaky breath. She glanced at the clock on the wall just past seven. She'd made it through another night. That had to count for something.
She finished her meal and paid with the last of her cash, careful not to draw attention. As she left the café, Rowan called after her, "Good luck, stranger."
Mireille stepped into the sunlight, blinking against its brightness. The town seemed friendlier now, warmed by the golden light, but she remained cautious. She found the Harbor View easily a blue-and-white clapboard building with flower boxes in the windows. The woman at the front desk greeted her with a practiced smile and handed her a brass key.
"Room six. Breakfast's at eight. Let us know if you need anything."
Mireille nodded, grateful for the anonymity. She climbed the narrow stairs, her footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The room was small but clean, with a view of the harbor and a bed that looked soft enough to swallow her whole. She set her bag on the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, letting her breath out in a long, shaky sigh.
She pressed her forehead to the cool window glass and watched the boats sway in the morning tide. For the first time in days, she let herself hope she might have a chance here.
But the relief was short-lived. She knew better than to trust hope.
Mireille unpacked her few belongings a faded sweater, a battered notebook, a toothbrush laying them neatly on the dresser. She paused at the notebook, running her fingers over the cover. The worn pages inside held fragments of her story: cryptic names, half-finished thoughts, lists of questions, and the odd, shaky memory. She flipped it open and scribbled the date in the margin. Every detail mattered now. The truth might be her only weapon.
After a quick shower, she changed into dry clothes and tied her hair back. She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror: pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, a bruise just beginning to color her cheekbone. She barely recognized herself.
She forced herself to leave the room. She couldn't afford to hide. She needed to know the town, to find its rhythms, to learn where to disappear if the shadows found her.
Outside, Haven Bay was fully awake. Kids biked past on their way to school, their laughter echoing between the buildings. A fisherman unloaded crates of silver-scaled fish onto the dock, his dog weaving between his legs. A pair of old men played chess at a table outside the bakery, their hands moving with steady confidence.
Mireille moved through the streets with purpose, eyes alert. She bought a local paper from a newsstand, scanning the headlines. Nothing about her, nothing about the crash or the missing journalist. She searched for any sign that someone might be looking for her a stranger's gaze held too long, a camera pointed her way but found nothing. Still, she walked with her head down, every muscle tense.
She followed the main street until it petered out at the rocky shoreline. Waves crashed against the jetty, sending salt spray into the air. Mireille breathed deeply, the sharp tang clearing her head. She sat on a driftwood log and watched the horizon, letting the sea's endless motion steady her nerves.
She lost track of time. At last, her hunger drew her back toward the center of town. She ducked into a small grocery, bought an apple and a bottle of water, and paid in coins. The clerk barely looked up.
As she left, she felt an itch between her shoulder blades a prickling sense of being watched. She glanced back, but the street behind her was empty. Only a stray cat watched her from beneath a truck, green eyes unblinking.
"Get a grip," Mireille muttered. But the feeling lingered.
She walked to the public library, its doors open and welcoming. The librarian, a tall woman with a gentle smile, greeted her as she entered. Mireille drifted through the stacks, searching for books on self-defense, small towns, and changing identity. She jotted notes in her battered notebook, careful not to leave fingerprints on the pages.
An hour passed. Mireille's eyelids drooped, exhaustion pulling at her. She nearly nodded off in a quiet corner, the gentle hum of fluorescent lights lulling her. But a sudden noise a sharp cough, a chair scraping snapped her awake. She looked up to see a man standing at the end of the aisle, watching her.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curled at his collar. He wore a weathered leather jacket and jeans, and his face was shadowed in the dim light. Something in his posture alert but casual made Mireille tense.
She closed her notebook and stood, sliding past him with a murmured excuse. He nodded, his eyes following her as she left. She tried to memorize his face: strong jaw, sharp nose, a faint scar on his chin. She'd seen enough detectives in her old life to know when someone was sizing her up.
Outside, the sky was clouding over, the wind picking up. Mireille quickened her pace, glancing over her shoulder. The man didn't follow. She ducked into an alley, pressed herself against the bricks, and waited, her breath coming in shallow bursts.
After a few minutes, she forced herself to calm down. She walked back to the inn, keeping to the main streets, her hand tight around her notebook.
In her room, she locked the door and collapsed on the bed. Her mind spun with questions. Who was the man in the library? Had someone already found her? Or was she seeing threats in every shadow?
She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to stop shaking. She couldn't let fear win. She needed a plan.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't eaten since morning. She washed her face, put on her sweater, and headed downstairs to the inn's dining room.
The room was filled with the warm scent of soup and fresh bread. Mireille found a seat by the window, her back to the wall. She watched the other guests two tourists chatting in rapid French, an elderly couple holding hands, a man reading a battered paperback. No one seemed interested in her.
She ordered soup and bread, eating slowly, savoring the heat. The innkeeper's teenage son bustled between tables, refilling water glasses.
As she finished her meal, the door swung open. The man from the library entered, shaking rain from his jacket. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Mireille for a heartbeat before he sat at the bar.
Mireille's pulse quickened. She kept her eyes on her empty bowl, wishing she could disappear.
The man ordered coffee. His voice was low and rough, edged with something Mireille couldn't name. The innkeeper greeted him by name Alex.
Alex Carter.
Mireille filed the name away. He was local, then. Maybe just curious about a stranger in town. Or maybe something more.
She finished her meal and stood, heart pounding. As she passed the bar, Alex looked up.
"Long day?" he asked, his tone casual.
Mireille nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Long enough."
He smiled, just a little. "If you need directions, let me know. Haven Bay isn't as quiet as it looks."
She paused, surprised by the warning in his voice. "Is that so?"
"You'd be amazed," he said, his eyes steady on hers.
Mireille nodded and slipped away, the weight of his gaze following her up the stairs.
In her room, she locked the door and leaned against it, shaking. She didn't know what to make of Alex Carter, but she knew one thing she couldn't afford to trust anyone.
She crossed to the window and watched the street below. The rain was falling harder now, turning the world into shimmering reflections. She saw Alex exit the inn, hands in his pockets, head down against the wind. He paused under a streetlight, glancing back at the inn before walking away.
Mireille shivered. She felt like a mouse in a maze, every path watched, every exit blocked.
She changed into her pajamas and crawled beneath the covers, but sleep wouldn't come. Her mind replayed the day's events the library, the man's eyes, the sense of being hunted.
She got up and checked the door, then the window, then the door again. She set her battered notebook under her pillow, a small comfort in a world gone dangerous.
As the storm raged outside, Mireille promised herself she'd survive. She'd come too far to give up now.
And somewhere in the dark, she knew, someone was waiting.