“It was me! I gave you the gifts, not him.” Laura’s face twisted with disgust, and a sudden memory bubbled up—not of Laura’s first email, but of Ghost standing in the doorway of the forge.
“Hey, some woman from Haven House called, too. Sarah? Asked if you could bring more sandpaper tomorrow.”
Shit. She should’ve pieced it together right then—Sarah had arrived after she changed her phone number, so there was no reason for her to have the one Ghost was monitoring.
“You had my old phone number,” Maggie said slowly. “The one I changed because of Landry’s calls.”
Laura beamed. “Of course. I have all your numbers.” She reached for her keepsake box, lifting the lid to reveal the dark blue velvet interior. “Did I show you the hidden compartment? I made it specially for my collection.”
Maggie knew she should run. Should scream. Should throw something at Laura and make a break for it. But her feet feltcemented to the floor as Laura’s fingers dipped into the box and pressed something beneath the velvet. A small click, and a false bottom slid back, revealing a hidden space.
Laura pulled out a small square and held it up. A Polaroid photograph. “Remember this one? You’re so pretty when you sleep.”
Yes, she remembered it. The image was burned into her consciousness—herself, curled on her side in her Tampa bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. The exact photo she’d found on her bedside table four months ago. The photo that had finally convinced her to flee to Valor Ridge.
“How did you get into my apartment?” The question came out strangled, barely audible.
“You really should lock your balcony door. I climbed up from the apartment below.” Laura smiled, nostalgic, as if recalling a fond memory. “You were so peaceful. I stood there for almost an hour, just watching you breathe.”
This woman had stood over her and watched her sleep. For. Hours. Her skin crawled, like a thousand spiders racing up her spine, but she forced her gaze away from the photo and glanced around the workshop, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. Her hammer lay on the workbench six feet away. Too far. But there was a chisel closer, just within reach if she moved casually enough.
She took a small step sideways, trying to appear natural, and that’s when she noticed them—thin, puckered lines on Laura’s forearm. Cat scratches. Mostly healed now, but unmistakable.
Princess Jellybean.
The muddy footprints outside her cabin.
“It was you,” she breathed, horror rising in her throat. “At the ranch. You hurt Princess.”
Laura’s face darkened. “That stupid cat attacked me when I was trying to get to your window. And after that, Ghost tightened security.” Her mouth twisted. “I couldn’t get close to you anymore.”
“So you came to Haven House,” Maggie said, the pieces falling into sickening place. “You made yourself look like a victim so you could get close to me through my classes.”
“Clever, right?” Pride gleamed in Laura’s eyes. “I knew you taught there. I followed you from the ranch one day, watched you go inside. That’s when I came up with the plan.”
All those bruises. The split lip. The fractured rib that made her wince when she bent over. The fear in her eyes that had seemed so genuine.
“You did that toyourself?”
“Most of it.” Laura shrugged like it was nothing. “The rib was an accident. I fell harder than I meant to. But the rest was just makeup and careful planning. I’m pretty good with special effects. Used to work in theater before I got fired for...” She trailed off, smile faltering. “Anyway, I drove my car into a ditch, messed up my face, and showed up at Haven House with my sad story about my abusive husband.”
“So Ryan isn’t real, either.”
“Oh, he was real. Ryan Drummond. He just wasn’t my husband.” Her eyes went flat, cold. “But he was my lover. For a while.”
“And where is he now?” She didn’t miss how Laura referred to him in the past tense.
“Dead. A long time ago.”
There. A flicker of… something. Sadness? Regret?
Maybe Maggie could use it to her advantage, so she inwardly braced herself and asked, “What happened?”
Laura scowled. “Why do you care?”
“I’m just trying to understand.” She forced a gentleness she didn’t feel into her voice. “If you’re my biggest fan, you know I always need the full story before I start a project.”
There was that flicker of real emotion again. A hunger for connection, for understanding. For approval.
