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“Samuel.”

“Until I know who they are.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He locks the door. Then he crosses to one of the windows and looks through the curtain, scanning the tree line.

I could grab something. A fireplace poker. One of the heavy logs. I could hit him and take his keys. Except I saw him disarm a man in seconds. If I attack Samuel, I doubt I’ll make it to the porch.

I stand in the center of the room, surrounded by fake cobwebs and paper ghosts, while daylight fades beyond the windows.

“This is insane,” I whisper.

Samuel looks over his shoulder. “Hungry?”

I blink at him. “You kidnap women often enough to keep snacks ready?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not eating anything you give me.”

His brow furrows as if the possibility of poisoning me hadn’t occurred to him.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“You threw me into your truck.”

“To save you.”

“You brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere.”

“To hide you.”

“You took my phone.”

“To stop them from tracking it.”

“Every terrible thing you do comes with a noble excuse.”

His expression closes. He turns back to the window. For the next hour, Samuel barely speaks.

He heats a pot of stew on the stove. I refuse a bowl until my stomach growls loud enough to humiliate me. Then I eat while sitting at the far end of his kitchen table.

It’s annoyingly good.

Outside, evening settles over the clearing. Wind pushes leaves across the porch with a dry scraping sound. The temperature drops, and rain begins ticking against the windows. Samuel moves through the cabin checking locks, lowering blinds, and pulling weapons from hidden compartments.

There is a shotgun beneath the stairs. A pistol behind the books. A rifle inside the hall closet.

“You expecting a war?” I ask.

“Always.” He says it without humor.

By ten, the rain has become a steady downpour. Orange lights glow along the porch railing, turning the wet leaves into little copper mirrors. Somewhere outside, a motion-activated decoration releases a witch’s cackle.

I jump. Samuel looks toward the sound, hand already reaching for the gun at his side.

Despite everything, I laugh. He studies me. “It’s the decoration,” I explain. “The witch.”