“How are you?”
“Oh, I’m good,” Darcy replied.
“Wonderful.” Willow’s tone turned teasing as she glanced between Darcy and Sara. “And you and the sheriff—how’s that going?”
Darcy braced herself. From the edge of her vision, Sara watched in silence, her expression unreadable. The exchange left Darcy uneasy.
Willow went on. “Drop by soon—I’ve got peach cobbler, Sheriff Scott’s favorite. Maybe blackberry if I can find the good berries!”
Smiling tightly, Darcy realized everyone noticed, and it wasn’t all comfort. Attention in a small town was a double-edged sword. The more people saw, the greater the risk.
The teller pushed her ID back. “You’re all set, Miss Nolan—and say hi to Sheriff Scott for me.”
Heat crept up Darcy’s neck. She pocketed the receipt, nodded to Willow, and stepped outside. Sunlight and weekend chatter failed to ease her tension. Being seen meant safety—but also risk.
Across the street, a dark sedan idled. A figure—a man—was just visible through tinted glass. When she looked again, the car was gone, but the feeling of being watched stayed with her.
That night, as her tea brewed, Darcy caught her reflection in the kitchen window—shoulders still tight, one hand clamped around her mug.It’s just a town,she told herself.Just faces, names, a normal Friday afternoon.Yet part of her still braced for Jason’s voice—sharp, cold—cutting through the quiet. Even miles away, she felt his grip in old habits; every friendly question seemed edged.
Am I safe here? Will I ever stop looking over my shoulder?
By morning, Main Street had transformed for the Saturday market—canvas tents blooming before dawn, vendors stacking crates of tomatoes and wildflowers. Jazz guitar drifted from the courthouse steps, and children darted between booths, fingerssticky with peach juice. The hush that usually blanketed town had lifted, replaced by a warm, communal buzz.
Darcy moved differently—less guarded, almost swept along. People greeted her by name, and for a fleeting hour, she let herself believe she might stop running.
Jason
Jason paced his office, city lights bleeding through the glass. Routine gave his days clarity—coffee at 7:15 sharp, meetings at nine, never a minute late. Darcy had been part of that structure, another pillar in the architecture of his life—a life that only made sense when everything stayed in its proper place. Now, each time he glanced at the empty chair across the mahogany table, irritation prickled beneath his skin.
It shouldn’t have mattered. She was gone—replaced easily enough, in theory. But he hated loose ends. He hated that people noticed her absence, that his schedule held a gap no assistant could quite fill, and most of all, that she’d chosen unpredictability over his carefully built certainty. He pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through old messages.
Disruption—he would not tolerate it. Not in his house. Not in his life. He never had.
Chapter 23
Intrusion
Izzy Moreno
Izzy parked in her reserved garage spot, the engine’s fading hum providing a fleeting moment of peace after a chaotic day. She exited, locked the car — the click echoing in the still garage—and took the elevator to the sixth floor.
As she neared her apartment, dread spiked—her door was ajar. She froze, thinking of Luna, her little black-and-white cat. She could not leave Luna at risk.
Cautiously, she checked behind her, then fished out her phone. She dialed 9-1-1, thumb trembling over the send button. “Luna?” she called, voice barely above a whisper, hoping for a reply. The silence was thick. Heart thudding, she eased the door open and slipped inside. Only then, with shaking hands, did she hit send.
The elevator’s whir faded, replaced by devastation. Her living room was wrecked—sofas slashed, white stuffing scattered, tables overturned, drawers ripped out.
“Luna?” Her voice wavered. A small bundle darted from under the sofa—Luna, fur on end, yellow eyes wide. Izzy scooped her up, pressing the cat close. She grabbed a butcher’s knife fromthe kitchen, the cold handle grounding her as she whispered to Luna."I'm going to keep you safe."
With knife and phone in hand, Luna nestled against her, Izzy crept toward the bedrooms. She paused outside the guest room. Inside, the desk was toppled, papers and photos strewn, one frame with Caitlin’s picture cracked among the mess. Ruined images blurred briefly with memories of Caitlin, but a chilling certainty followed: someone had been searching for something specific. If Jason had ordered this, they wanted Caitlin’s whereabouts. Nausea churned as she realized how exposed they were.
She braced and entered the bedroom. The bed seemed untouched, but drawers were open and jewelry lay scattered. Luna squirmed free and hid.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“My home has been broken into… it’s trashed,” Izzy stuttered, scanning the room. The operator’s voice remained calm, asking if she was somewhere safe.
“Yes.” Izzy steadied her voice, clutching Luna. Moments later, officers arrived. Grief burned into anger as she accused Jason, but the police remained noncommittal.
