That was it.
That was the last time I ever saw her alive.
They said it was an accident. Said she sped straight into that overpass. The car flipped three times and landed in a deep embankment. They said she died on impact. But there were no skid marks. No hesitation. Just a clean, deliberate exit.
When I read her letter, it sounded a lot like she did it on purpose. Like she wanted out. And she did. Just not like that.I knew her better than anyone. She didn’t want to die that day. She wanted out of life withme. She wanted something better. Something quieter. Something less dangerous. A version of herself that didn’t have to carry the weight of my name or my mistakes. She wanted air. I gave her a cage.
She didn’t see a way out.
And yeah, maybe the letter sounded like a goodbye. But it wasn’t to the world. It was tous.To the man I was. To the life she kept trying to survive.
But she didn’t get a choice.
My darkness took that from her. My trouble. The shit I let creep in and fester until it swallowed everything she had left.
So yeah. She’s gone because of me.
And that’s not the kind of guilt you bury.
It’s the kind that buriesyou.
And just now, when Marlowe pulled away from me, I heard that door slam all over again.
But this time, I won’t let it end like that. Marlowe can shut me out. She can turn away. Hell, she can try to run if she wants to. It won’t matter. Because Marlowe’s mine. And I’m never letting her go.
My phone flares to life, cutting through the darkness. I read the message:
Trailed Clay to a motel. Stayed an hour. Stayed behind after he left and I sent housekeeping to bring towels. Taylor answered the door. I think it’s safe to say your location is compromised. What would you like me to do?
Do what I paid you to do.
Kill him. Because I’m never letting anyone hurt her again.
Chapter Seven
MARLOWE
There he is again.
Same guy. Same leather jacket in weather that doesn’t really call for one. Same not-watching-you-but-definitely-is energy. He walks past the front window like he’s out for a harmless midday stroll. Except it’s the third time today, and something about it gives me weird vibes. It’s the way his eyes flick toward the shop. How his pace slows just enough when he thinks I’m not watching.
But I’m definitely watching.
I take a sip of my water bottle, pretending it’s doing something besides swirling around with the four hours of sleep and the last of this weekend’s sangria. Spoiler alert. It’s not. My head feels like a sock full of screws, and I’m not emotionally prepared to deal with a possible stalker on top of that.
I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but he was out there first thing this morning. Five a.m., parked across the street in a black car, scrolling through his phone and glancing up at the bakery while I unlocked the doors.
Then around nine, he came inside. Ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate scone, which—fine, solid choices—but he asked too many questions. Questions about the building. The hours. Whobaked what. All with this polite, not-quite- friendly smile, like he was trying too hard to seem normal. Which, ironically, is the fastest way to seem anything but normal.
And now here he is again. Noon. Lap three. Same jacket in perfect seventy-degree weather. Same weird glance toward the window.
I lean an elbow on the counter and pretend to check inventory on the iPad, watching him through my lashes like we’re in a cheap spy drama. He doesn’t look dangerous. He’s not pacing or twitching or talking to himself. But something about him rubs me wrong, in that low-grade, slow-creep way that doesn’t hit until it’s already burrowed into your spine.
I could call Damian. He’s just upstairs. One text and he’d be down here in thirty seconds, standing in front of the bakery like a six-foot-four brick wall. All tattoos and don’t-fuck-with-me energy. The guy outside wouldn’t last ten seconds under that stare.
But that might also scare off half my customers. Maybe the mailman too. And definitely the guy who delivers our egg cartons, who already jumps when the bell rings too loud.
Besides, I’m avoiding him.
