She didn’t say things like that unless she meant them. Harmony lived inside her own vigilance. If she felt fear, it was because something had shifted. When I pulled into the community center lot, I scanned every corner before I even shut off the engine. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. A car I didn’t recognize was parked near the side alley. It was dark blue and clean. I watched it for a full ten seconds.
No movement.
I got out of the truck and headed inside. The front doors opened into the warm, familiar lobby. A few teens lingered by the bulletin board. A couple of them called out, “Hey, Eric,” but I barely registered it. I spotted Harmony near the hallway that led to the art rooms. She stood stiffly with her hands clasped in front of her, the posture she used when she was trying not to look frightened. Mara Duquette stood on her other side; her expression serious. The moment Harmony saw me, her shoulders dipped. Relief. Not the kind that fixed anything, but the kind that said she had been holding herself together with a thin thread.
I walked straight to her. “What happened?”
Her voice was low. “Let’s talk outside.”
I nodded and guided her toward the exit. She walked close enough that our arms brushed, and I felt the tension running through her like a current.
Once the doors closed behind us, she took a breath. “The same car circled the center again today. Three times. Mara noticed it the first and second time. I noticed it the third.”
“Could you see the driver?” I asked because we needed more than a pair of tinted windows.
She shook her head. “The windows were too dark.”
That matched the car Becket described. My chest tightened.
“What else?” I asked.
She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It feels like someone is watching the building. Even the teens noticed something was off in the hallway.”
I studied her face. Her eyes held a bright sharpness that came with fear she was trying to swallow. Harmony had lived through enough darkness to recognize the shape of danger. She would not sound like this unless she was certain.
“You did the right thing texting me,” I said quietly.
She looked down as if the praise embarrassed her. “I didn’t want to overreact.”
“This isn’t overreacting,” I said. “This is playing it safe.”
A gust of cold wind swept through the lot, pulling her hair across her cheek. I reached up and tucked a strand behind her ear before I realized I had moved. She leaned into the touch so slightly I almost missed it.
“Anyone come inside?” I asked.
“No. But something felt wrong. Like someone was waiting.” Her voice shook.
I absorbed that. Harmony carried instincts shaped by survival. If she felt watched, we had to listen.
“Where is Asher?” I asked.
“He stopped in earlier,” she said. “He pretended he needed to drop off a flyer for the youth boxing group, but he just looked around. He walked the hallways and the back corridor. Then he stayed outside for a while.”
Her voice softened. “He didn’t talk to me. He just stayed nearby.”
That sounded exactly like my brother. Asher protected people by hovering where no one expected him, half careless and half vigilant. It was easier for him to watch someone than to admit why he was doing it.
“He’s a good guy,” Harmony whispered.
I nodded. “He is.”
Her arms tightened across her middle. The hollow look in her eyes twisted something inside me.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
She nodded. The simple trust in that gesture hit deeper than it should have. We walked to the truck together. I unlocked it and helped her inside, scanning the lot for another glimpse of the dark blue car. It was gone, which wasn’t reassuring at all.
When I slid behind the wheel, Harmony reached for the seat belt, but her hands shook. I fastened it for her before she could finish. She looked up at me with a fragile gratitude that made my pulse pound.
