Rip Current
Something was wrong.
Lena hovered in the doorway to her office, feet frozen to the tile like her body knew something her mind hadn’t quite accepted. Her scalp prickled, every hair on the nape of her neck standing at military attention. Goosebumps rippled over her arms in spite of the balmy island air drifting through the open hallway behind her.
To anyone else, her desk would appear normal. The monitor standing sentinel, her glass paperweight glinting in light, the tidy pen cup—everything appeared… fine. And yet, it wasn’t. Not to her.
The stapler sat half an inch too far left. Her mouse cord looped the wrong way. Even the edge of her desk mat had a corner curled; she would’ve flattened it. She wasn’t officially diagnosed with OCD, but after Chester, she developed a relationship with order. When she couldn’t control the people trying to destroy her life, she clung to what she could: symmetry, placement, routine.
And now—something was off.
She couldn’t make her legs move forward. Her stomach swirled with nausea and dread. The air seemed thick andoppressive—like if she stepped inside the office, she’d be walking into something she couldn’t walk back out of. For a split second, panic constricted her lungs as she asked herself the question she didn’t want answered?—
What if her stalker had left another gift?
Lena swallowed hard, her tongue sweeping across a mouth gone dry. Should she call Zach or resort security? David? She frowned. They might think she was spiraling. High-strung. Paranoid.
“Morning, Lena.”
She shrieked and spun toward the voice, hand flying to her throat, breath catching painfully. Walter stood in the hall, his big brown eyes crinkling with regret. “God, Walter,” she panted. “You scared the crap out of me.”
He raised both hands in a soothing gesture, his baritone warm and apologetic. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to startle you. You okay? You’ve been standing there staring like the desk insulted you.”
“I—uh—don’t suppose you’d do me a weird favor?” She rubbed the stress line between her eyes.
He gave a mild, good-natured shrug. “Sure. What’s the ask?”
“Can you check my desk?” Her lips twisted in self-deprecation. “The drawers, I mean. I know how it sounds—but I’m telling you, something’s off. Everything’s been moved. Slightly, but… enough. And after the calls, the stuff in my cottage—Walter, someone’s been in here. I can feel it in my skin.”
Her voice pitched up toward the end even though she fought to stay calm. She hated how shaky she sounded.
Walter’s easy-going personality vanished at her words. His mouth thinned. “You have a stalker?” he asked.
She gave a jerky nod. “Zach thinks so. There was—there’s been stuff. In my cottage. Crank calls.Threatening gifts. I’vebeen moved to the Princess Suite for now. Then the water situation blew up, and I sort of… shelved it? But now…”
He didn’t need her to finish. Kindness deepened the lines around his eyes. “All right.” He moved inside and after a quick glimpse under the desk, settled into her chair, opening each drawer methodically. When he opened the shallow middle drawer, his hand paused.
“There’s an envelope here,” he said cautiously. “Greeting card size, with your name on it. Was this here yesterday?”
Fear slid cold and biting down her spine like a block of ice. “No,” she whispered. “That wasn’t there.”
Walter’s next move was swift. He stood and reached for the desk phone, his big fingers surprisingly nimble as he punched in an extension. “Zach,” he said into the receiver, “it’s Walter. I’m with Lena. Something’s wrong—there’s a note in her desk drawer with her name on it. She didn’t put it there. Given the situation, I think you should take a look.”
He listened for a beat, then nodded once. “Thanks. I’ll stay here with her until you get here.” He set the phone down, and turned to her.
Gently, but with authority, he grasped her arm and guided her toward her guest chair. Once seated, he crouched and dug in her tote bag until he found her stainless steel water bottle. He twisted off the cap and pressed it into her hand.
“Drink.”
Just one word, but it centered her. She obeyed, gulping cool, citrusy water into her parched mouth. The tang of lemon helped chase back the metallic taste of panic.
“Thanks,” she murmured hoarsely. “I’m okay now. Sorry I freaked out.”
“No need.” Zach’s voice sliced through the air like a blade through silk.
Lena looked up to find him filling her doorway, his massive frame radiating purpose. He scanned the room in seconds, his eyes sharp, glacial. She couldn’t have been more relieved if he’d arrived on a flaming chariot.
“Never apologize for a rational reaction to an irrational threat,” he said, like it was doctrine. Then, softer—in a way that grabbed her full attention—“You should be afraid. Fear keeps you alert. But don’t freeze in it. Convert it. Use it.”
