Because she knew where she would be the next afternoon.
The Devil’s Keep became routine slowly.
Routine became safety even more slowly.
At first Samantha memorized exits in every room.
She parked where she could see her car from the bar.
She checked mirrors constantly.
If a dark sedan slowed outside, her stomach tightened.
If someone used Reuben’s cologne, she lost her place in orders.
But the club had rhythms, and rhythms helped.
Grizzly arrived most afternoons between four and five.
Wyatt was usually earlier.
Meat drank bourbon unless he was pretending to cut back.
Jojo played pool badly and accused everyone else of cheating.
A mechanic named Ruiz drank coffee during evening shifts because he had stopped drinking alcohol six years earlier and the club never questioned him about it.
Prospects carried boxes.
Cleaned.
Ran errands.
Learned mostly through being yelled at.
Samantha learned everyone’s preferences.
She also learned boundaries.
When members went into the rear meeting room for “church,” she turned the jukebox louder and stayed out.
When arguments became serious, she moved glasses away from reach and let Wyatt handle the room.
When strangers entered, she watched their hands before their faces.
When someone asked what happened to her eye, she said, “Old problem.”
Eventually, people stopped asking.
Wyatt remained suspicious longer than anyone.
His suspicion had little to do with cruelty.
He distrusted unknown variables.
Samantha was one.
Some nights he sat at the far end of the bar for hours and barely spoke.
He watched the door.
Watched customers.
Watched Samantha.