“I’m being followed,” I whispered, the words barely forming.
Eric swore so loudly I flinched. “Where are you? Harmony, where?”
“The road past the river turnoff, near the old mill path.”
“I’m already coming. Get to the house. Do not stop. Do you hear me?” His voice was panicked.
A thousand responses swirled in my mind, fear, relief, shame for calling too late. All I managed was, “Okay.”
I hung up and pressed the accelerator. The truck climbed speed slower than a car would’ve, but it moved steadily, heavy and loud. Behind me, the sedan’s headlights flickered.
And then. . . They turned off. Not away. Just… off. The car disappeared into the road like it was swallowed by darkness that stretched behind me like a mouth.
“Shit,” I breathed.
That was deliberate. A Jeep or pickup would’ve thrown more light from other angles. This vehicle disappeared entirely.
I kept driving faster now because I needed to get back to Maple Valley. The entrance came into view, the large sign, the soft glow of lights from the brewery, the neat rows of apple trees fading into dusk.
Home.
Safety.
Or as close to safety as existed anymore.
I drove straight up the long gravel driveway toward the main house. The porch light tumbled over Pierre’s front steps, just as another set of headlights appeared coming the opposite direction.
Eric’s truck.
He braked hard and was out of the driver’s side before I’d even fully parked, sprinting toward me, face tight with fear he didn’t bother hiding. I opened the door on shaky legs.
He caught me instantly with hands on my arms, my waist, my face, like he needed to touch every part of me to confirm I was whole.
“Harmony, geez. Why didn’t you call sooner?”
“I. . .I didn’t want to panic. I wasn’t sure until…” My breath wobbled. “They followed me five kilometers then turned off a dirt road and cut their lights.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Where?”
I pointed back toward the road. “Near the mill turnoff.”
Eric froze. His eyes sharpened but not with certainty, more like recognition of something he didn’t want to name.
“Sunshine…” He swallowed once, carefully. “That stretch of road… people used it when they didn’t want to be seen.”
My breath hitched. “People like who?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw worked once. Twice. Not denial. Not confirmation. Just a quiet war behind his eyes.
“Could be anyone,” he finally said. “Your father’s people used it. The Trust used it sometimes. Nico used to take that back way too.”
A beat.
“And Olivier… he knew those turnoffs better than most.”
A cold shiver slid through me. “So you think?—”
“I think,” he cut in gently, but firmly, “this is bigger than one name. And we’re not jumping to conclusions.”
