For fourteen years, I thought I knew the man I slept next to every night.

He was just a quiet man who worked late hours at the furniture shop.

Now, he was locked in the back of a van, and I was running for my life with his secrets in my lap.

Arthur turned down a long, overgrown driveway that led to a small, single-story cabin hidden behind a row of pine trees.

We got out of the car, the cold air hitting us again.

Arthur unlocked the front door of the cabin and ushered me inside.

The air inside was musty and smelled of old paper and woodsmoke.

He lit a single kerosene lamp on the wooden kitchen table, casting a warm, flickering glow over the small room.

“Dry yourself off,” Arthur said, tossing me a faded blue towel.

I rubbed the towel over my hair, my hands still shaking so hard I could barely hold it.

I sat down at the table and placed the damp ledger in the center of the wood.

“Why are you helping me, Arthur?” I asked, looking up at him.