A presence that hits me square in the chest.
She’s even more beautiful than I ever imagined, and I have imagined her a thousand different ways.
Something dark and possessive coils low in my gut as she starts toward the street.
I push off the wall and follow.
I keep my distance as she crosses the street and heads around the corner, my limp barely noticeable if I’m careful about my stride. I’ve learned how to move so people don’t look twice. How to blend in. Old habits die hard.
She walks a few blocks before stopping in front of a small bistro tucked between a bookstore and a nail salon. She hesitatesfor a second, then pushes the door open and steps out into the evening.
I follow her inside.
The place smells like coffee and warm bread. It’s cozy—the kind of place people come to when they don’t want to eat alone but don’t want company either. She steps up to the counter and places her order, resting her elbows lightly on the wood as she waits.
The guy behind the counter smiles at her. Not that polite, neutral customer-service smile that an attendant would give every customer…an interested smile.
My jaw tightens.
She smiles back—small, absent, the kind of smile you give without thinking. It shouldn’t mean anything. I know that. Still, my hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms as something hot and ugly twists through me.
Mine.
The thought comes unbidden and absolute.
She takes her food to go and leaves a minute later, and I don’t let myself breathe until she’s out the door and walking away. I follow her a moment later, scoping her out as she heads back to where she must have left her car. I quickly hop into my own, eager to keep tracking her, to see what the rest of her night entails. I follow her through familiar streets, memorizing turns, landmarks, the rhythm of her driving. She doesn’t rush, carefully signaling every turn.
She’s just as considerate as she sounded on paper.
She pulls into a modest apartment building a few miles away. The building is old but clean and seems secure. I park down the block and wait until she’s inside before following, my pulse kicking up again as I close the distance.
The front door clicks shut behind us and suddenly we’re in the same space, separated by only a few feet of air and my own restraint.
Her scent invades my head—light and clean. Citrus? Maybe Mint. I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from reaching out, from brushing my fingers against her coat just to prove she’s real.
She walks toward the mailboxes, digging in her bag for her keys. I turn away at the last second and pretend to head for the stairwell, my reflection catching in the metal door. I pull my hat even lower, and with my sunglasses still on, I probably look like a stalker. I feel like one.
From the corner of my eye, I watch her. She checks her mail, sliding envelopes out of one narrow slot before tucking them into her bag. The boxes have no names, just numbers.
She heads for the elevator, presses the button, and waits. I memorize the number on her mailbox, committing it to memory like coordinates. When the elevator doors open, she steps inside without looking back.
I wait after the doors to close behind her, then count to ten. Then to twenty. And to thirty. Then I step out of the stairwell and walk toward the mailboxes, my hands steady despite the way my heart is racing. I don’t touch anything. I already have what I need.
Her apartment number.
I’ve written her a letter. It’s been folded and unfolded so many times the creases are soft. I hadn’t been sure I’d give it to her—not today, maybe not ever. Seeing her in person was supposed to be enough.
It isn’t.
I wait a few minutes, long enough for the elevator to carry her up and settle, for her to be inside her apartment. Then I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protest in my leg.
Her door is plain. Unmarked. Just like she is at first glance.
I kneel, slide the envelope carefully under the door, and withdraw my hand before I can second-guess myself. I straighten and step back, my pulse roaring in my ears as I turn and leave the way I came.
I drive across town on autopilot, the streets blurring together until familiar landmarks tell me I’m close. Harbor House sits on a quiet block just off a main road. It’s easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking for because it has no sign announcing what it is. No bars on the windows. Just a clean, well-kept building with warm lights glowing behind the glass.
It isn’t a traditional halfway house.
