Page 17 of Walking Away

Your mother can’t meet all my needs, son, and I don’t want her to feel inadequate. Besides, a man doesn’t apologize for wanting all he can have.

Jason learned early: charm your way through every consequence. Never hesitate. Never regret.

He’d spent the weekend in Miami proving that lesson all over again—tee times with his partners by day, a Spanish beauty named Claudia by night, her laugh echoing in his head like a trophy he didn’t intend to keep.

So when the Escalade rolled through the gates at One Cherry Creek Drive North and up the curved brick drive, a flicker of pride warmed him. The house—his house—rose like proof against the night: white-trimmed perfection, every hedge razor-cut, every pane gleaming. Up-lighting washed the façade in soft gold, catching the marble columns and manicured trees.

He’d designed it himself, down to the last line of the roof and the symmetry of the windows. A West Original. People said it looked like something from the Hamptons, but he liked to think of it as Denver’s crown jewel—a masterpiece with his name written all over it.

He stepped inside, let the door close behind him, and set his phone on the console. The home-security app flickered to life—a grid of camera thumbnails. Garage Bay Two showed only concrete and shadow. He scrolled to the tracker app:RiNo Arts Park.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. Figures.

That friend of hers—Izzy Moreno. Art curator, self-made, always moving in circles she didn’t quite belong to. She had taste, he’d give her that, but she also had a mouth that never stopped and opinions no one asked for.

Women like Izzy thought independence made them superior, when really, it just made them noisy. He’d told Caitlin a dozen times that girl would get her into trouble.

Jason loosened his tie, straightened the pens on the entry console, then aligned the edge of a silver picture frame with the marble seam beneath it. The habit calmed him—everything neat, everything right.

He poured two fingers of bourbon, letting it settle him.

If Caitlin wanted to play house with her little friends, fine. He wasn’t the type to sit home waiting.

His thumb slid through his contacts until one name curved his mouth.Ava.

He pressed call.

“Hey there, baby,” he drawled when she answered. “Miss me?”

Her laugh purred through the line. “Always.”

Minutes later, he was pulling up in front of her condo, already knowing how the night would end—bourbon, silk sheets, and no questions he didn’t feel like answering.

Jason West was used to getting exactly what he wanted. And if Caitlin ever forgot that—he’d remind her.

Izzy

In Denver, Izzy set her phone on the counter and scrolled through the thread of burner-phone texts she’d memorized by heart.

Made it through Missouri. Roads are clear.

Crossed into Tennessee—mountains ahead.

Made it to Sylva. Safe.

Each message had landed with a rush of anticipation. Relief always followed, but never for long. Not until that last one—the single word that had felt like a benediction: Safe.

She leaned against the counter, eyes burning, and whispered a shaky laugh. “You did it, bella. You really did.”

Every step of the plan—down to the hour—had been laid out in that binder spread open between them at the café: the burner phone, the route, the new name.

Her cousin Frankie had done his part without asking questions. He’d found the old Airstream through a buddy in Fort Collins, transferred the title into his name, and parked it beneath a tarp until the night Caitlin came for it. Izzy had handled the paperwork—new registration, fresh plates, and the fake driver’s license that now readDarcy Ann Nolan.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold.

Izzy brushed her thumb over the final message again. She wanted to reply—just something, one last thread between them—but she couldn’t risk it. The less they left behind, the safer she’d be.

Instead, she whispered into the quiet kitchen, “Stay hidden. Stay free.”