“I did some reading up about The Nightlight Inn last night,” Coop says. “I can’t imagine what she’s been through.”

“She’s had a hard life,” I say.

“How are the two of you getting along?”

“Great. She and Jeff don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

Coop allows a half-smile. “I can’t say that surprises me.”

“Jeff’s the one you should be getting to know. This arrangement with Sam is only temporary. Like it or not, Jeff’s permanent.”

I don’t know why I say it. It slips out, unplanned. And just like that, Coop’s fraction of a smile vanishes.

“But thank you for coming,” I say, guilt softening my tone. “It was nice of you to suggest it, even though I’m starting to feel like a burden.”

“You’re not a burden, Quincy. You’ve never been one and you’ll never be one.”

Coop stares at me with those eyes of his. I run a finger over my bruised face, wondering if he’s somehow noticed that imperceptible line of pink along my cheekbone. Part of me hopes he’ll ask about it. It will allow me to use the lie I concocted to explain it away. Oh, that? I bumped into a doorway. I have trouble hiding my disappointment when he looks over my shoulder, watching Sam make her way back to us with a steaming mug in her hands. When she passes the writer again, she accidentally bumps the table, coffee mug tilting precariously.

“I’m so sorry!” she yelps.

The man looks up, smiling. “No problem.”

“Nice laptop,” she says.

Soon she’s at our table again, sitting beside me, giving Coop the once-over before telling him, “I thought you’d look different.”

“Good different or bad different?” Coop asks.

“Ugly different. And clearly you’re not.”

“So you knew who I was before today?”

“Of course,” Sam says. “Just like you knew who I was. That’s the power of the Internet. No one has secrets anymore.”

“Is that why you went into hiding?”

“Mostly,” Sam says. “But now I’m back among the living.”

“You certainly are.” There’s an edge of disbelief in Coop’s voice, as if he’s not buying the good-girl act Sam’s pushing so hard. He leans back, tilts his head, sizes her up the same way she did him. “Why’d you decide to return?”

“After I heard about what happened to Lisa, I thought I could possibly help Quincy,” Sam says, adding, “If she needed help.”

“Quincy doesn’t need help.” Coop says it like I’m not sitting directly across from him. Like I’m invisible. “She’s strong like that.”

“But I didn’t know that,” Sam says. “Which is why I’m here.”

“Are you going to stay long?”

Sam gives a blithe shrug. “Maybe. It’s too soon to tell.”

I take a sip of tea. It’s too hot, the liquid burning my tongue. But I keep drinking in the hope the pain will erase the spot of annoyance that’s once again found its way onto the back of my neck. This time it’s the size of a thumbprint, pressing into my skin.

“Sam changed her name,” I say. “That’s why no one’s been able to locate her.”

“Really?” Coop’s features rise in surprise. I’m expecting a lecture similar to the one he gave me when I suggested changing my name. Instead, he says, “I’m not going to ask you where you were or what name you were living under. I hope that, in time, you’ll trust me enough to tell me that on your own. All I ask is that you contact your family and let them know.”

“My family is one of the reasons I disappeared,” Sam says, growing quiet. “It wasn’t exactly the best environment even before The Nightlight Inn. It just got worse after. I love them and all, but some families aren’t meant to be around each other.”

“I could contact them for you,” Coop suggests. “Just to tell them you’re safe.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Coop shrugs. “You didn’t. I offered.”

“Spoken like a true public servant,” Sam says. “Were you always a cop?”

“Not always. Before that I was in the military. Marines.”

“You see any action?”

“Some.” Coop looks out the window, fixing those baby blues on the outside world to avoid eye contact. “Afghanistan.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “You must have seen some messed up stuff.”

“I did. But I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Well,” Sam says, “you and Quincy certainly have that in common.”

Coop turns away from the window, facing not Sam, but me. Again, there’s something unreadable in his expression. He looks suddenly, terribly sad.

“People deal with trauma in their own ways,” he says.

“And how do you deal with yours?” Sam asks.

“I fish,” Coop says. “And hunt. And hike. You know, typical Pennsylvania boy stuff.”

“Does it help?”

“Mostly.”

“Maybe I should try it,” Sam says.