“I’m sure.” Her voice was certain as tears glimmered in her eyes. “And it certainly didn’t move itself.”
“This tree must mean a lot to you.”
“It was my grandma’s. Most of the stuff in my house I don’t care about. But that tree . . .”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes shifted toward the hallway, then back to the door behind them. “You saw someone earlier, didn’t you? While we were walking? Whoever he was, he scared you.”
“You saw him too?” She pressed her eyes closed before nodding. “There’s this man . . . I’ve seen him around a couple of times. Caught him staring at me. I think he’s a fan. He . . . well, to be honest, he gives me the creeps.”
His gaze narrowed. “Did you tell the police about him?”
“I reported him once, but the police said they couldn’t do anything, that there hadn’t been any real crime.” She shrugged. “They almost made me feel like I was being silly for reporting it. Like I was wasting their time.”
“That’s not okay.” Luke let out a slow breath, controlled but clearly unsettled. “What if this man has been coming into your home and taking mementos of you?”
A chill traced her spine. “You think someone would do that?”
“I think it’s a good possibility. People can be nuts.”
The realization settled heavy in her chest as she stared at the empty space where light and warmth had stood only hours before.
She drew in a shaky breath. She didn’t like the thought of any of this.
Despite everything, her stomach chose that moment to grumble.
Maybe doing something constructive would help get her mind off the trouble following her.
“I think I’ll make dinner,” she announced, her voice cracking slightly under the strain of her fears.
Her statement sounded almost absurd after everything that had happened. But she needed normal. A pan. A spoon. Something that behaved predictably. Something within her control.
“You should call the police,” Luke suggested, his voice low but serious.
“They won’t do anything.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue but then shut it again. Instead, he studied her a long moment, something weighing behind his eyes.
He finally asked, “You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be.” She heard the thinness in her assurance. “You can stay if you’d like.”
His gaze softened, but his posture didn’t. He remained alert. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay a while longer, just to be on the safe side.”
As he moved a fraction closer, the space between them warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heat clicking on.
The missing tree wasn’t the only thing that had shifted, she realized.
Something in the air felt different—alive, charged, as if an unseen thread had tightened between her and Luke.
Whatever that something was, it both thrilled and terrified her.
Amayah and Luke moved around each other with surprising ease as she gathered ingredients for chicken alfredo.
Slowly, the kitchen began filling with warmth and life.
Soft Christmas music drifted from the small speaker on the counter—an instrumental version ofO Come, O Come, Emmanuel. Its gentle notes threaded through the air like something prayerful. In the living room beyond, her Christmas tree glowed softly, white lights sparkling against glass ornaments and treasured handmade decorations, a quiet constellation reflected in the darkened windowpanes.
Luke rolled up the sleeves of his snowflake Christmas sweater and began slicing the chicken breasts into even strips. While he did that, Amayah measured cream and grated parmesan. The faint rasp of the cheese grater kept time with the music.
