“Not a bird, Hud,” Cullen states, voice tight. He’s standing by the table, holding something, his back to me.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just turns slowly, his stare locked on the thing in his hands. He’s holding a brick wrapped in printer paper, duct tape clinging to the edges.
My stomach lurches.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.
He peels off the paper carefully, trying not to tear it.
The second it comes free, we both go still.
The brick hits the floor with a dullthud.
We’re staring at a blurry photo of Cull and me.
Inside the Bronco.
Mid-sex.
And across our faces, written in the same jagged scrawl as the anonymous letters:
He may have you now.
ButI’llhave you forever.
Twenty-Eight
Cullen
After a blur of panicked back-and-forth, we called our parents first, then the cops. Our parents told us to lock every door and wait in a room with a quick exit. It felt like overkill. Then I looked at the photo again. We don’t know who’s doing this or why, and that makes it terrifying.
The cops showed up fast, just ahead of our parents. We slipped one officer the photo, asked him not to show it or say anything to our families, and explained why. Thankfully, he didn’t blink. Just nodded, bagged it as evidence, and slid it into the trunk of his cruiser like it was nothing worse than an overdue library book.
When our parents arrived, panic was the first thing through the door. They were all over us. Touching our arms and scanning us for injuries, even though we’d already told them on the phone we were okay. They just had to see for themselves.
Then came the questions.
Did you see who it was? Was there more than one person? Why?
We didn’t have answers. Just the creepy notes from yesterday and a few weird texts we’ve both gotten. The cop bagged the old notes and added the texts to the report he made.
Mrs. Nora even called Ella’s mom to warn her. Told her to keep an eye out since she had also been receiving messages.
Thanks to the Daniels' doorbell cam, we got a glimpse of the guy. He was tall, lean, and fast, wearing a black hoodie, ski mask, and gloves. He moved like he had a stopwatch ticking in his head. He threw the brick and was gone in under twenty seconds.
The guy gave off athlete vibes and has to be someone from school. It’s the only logical explanation.
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
The police are wrapping up now, giving our parents tips on what to watch for. I look around and realize Hudson’s not with us.
Maybe he went to the bathroom.
But when he still hasn’t come back after a few minutes, I slip upstairs and find him pacing like he’s trying to wear a path through his bedroom floor.
“Baby?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
