I nod, throat tight. “I think so.”
Police arrive quickly. Too quickly, maybe. They tape off the street and interview witnesses.
“A delivery truck clipped a utility pole,” one officer says casually. “Pole snapped. Window went.”
An accident.
That’s the word they keep using.
But I know better.
Because utility poles don’t snapcleanlyat the base.
Because delivery trucks don’t disappear that fast.
And because the hair on the back of my neck hasn’t stopped standing up since the moment the glass fell.
I step outside, hugging my coat around me despite the warmth.
And that’s when I see it.
Across the street. Half-hidden behind a parked SUV.
A man.
Watching.
Not filming. Not pretending to be on his phone.
Just watching.
Our eyes meet.
His gaze doesn’t widen. Doesn’t flick away.
He nods once.
Then turns and walks into the crowd.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
I don’t remember dialing Ronan.
I just know he answers on the first ring.
“Lena.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I say immediately. I tell him everything.
Silence. Sharp. Focused.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. But Ronan—someone was watching. Hewaited.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m already moving.”
