I show Nick the text.
“Every day?” His jaw clenches. “That’s stalking.”
“He’s probably just?—”
“Jules, no. Stop making excuses for him. He’s waiting for you, and I don’t like it.”
“You’re right,” I admit.
I don’t understand how I could be with someone for three years and not even know who he was.
“We should document everything when we get back. Maybe talk to the police,” Nick suggests.
After we’re packed, I look around the cabin one last time. “Ready?”
“No. You?”
“No. But let’s go anyway.”
We load the Range Rover with our bags, taking our time, like we’re both reluctant to leave.
“At least we can come back whenever,” Nick says, reading my mind. “I have this place until November.”
We drive down the mountain road in comfortable silence, NPR on the radio. The leaves are bright and colorful, fluttering in the light breeze. Everything feels peaceful, like the world is welcoming us back, like everything is going to be okay. I slightly relax until we turn onto Main Street.
“That car’s been behind us since the turnoff,” Nick says, checking his rearview mirror.
I look in the side mirror and see a black SUV with tinted windows. “Maybe they’re just?—”
Another car pulls out from a side road ahead of us, camera lens visible through the passenger window.
“Shit,” Nick mutters. “How did they know?”
A third car appears, boxing us in.
Nick checks the rearview mirror. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Maybe they’re just?—”
“Jules”—he glances at me—“that’s a telephoto lens hanging out the window.”
The black SUV speeds up, trying to get alongside us. Nick suddenly yanks the wheel right, taking a sharp turn onto Cedar Street. My hand grabs the door handle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but his quick hockey reflexes are in full effect.
“Take the next left,” I say. “Then an immediate right onto that dirt road.”
“What dirt—” He sees it at the last second, tires squealing as we turn.
The SUV overshoots, brakes screeching.
“Now right again, behind the old Miller farm.”
Nick follows my directions without question. We weave through back roads only locals know—the shortcut to the quarry, the hidden turn by the creek, the unmarked road that connects to Mountain View.
“How many are still with us?” I ask, afraid to look back.
“Two … no, three.” He accelerates through a yellow light. “Hold on.”
