Through the café window I see Sadie and Rowan leaning in close, Sadie’s face drawn, arms folded defensively. Rowan’s posture says she’s braced for an argument.
I should drop it. It’s her business. But I can’t shake the raw look on Sadie’s face when she first spotted that car. That pure, unguarded fear.
I’m not going to force her to explain. But I’ll stay alert. Keep my distance but stay within reach. Because whoever sent that sedan wants something, something that terrifies Sadie Calloway to her core. And I’m not about to let her face that alone.
Chapter 5
Sadie
The last straggler leaves just after seven thirty. I flip the sign. My hand shakes, so I squeeze the deadbolt until metal scrapes on metal. Axel’s scent lingers near the counter, a trace of cologne and the always present smell of roasted beans. I force myself to ignore the way it sticks to my skin, the way the memory of his eyes follows me to every window I check.
“Closing time,” I announce, though Finn and Saul know the drill.
Finn groans behind the counter. “But I was just starting my interpretive dance.”
“Save it for your shower.” I move to the windows. Front first, then the ones by the bulletin board, always clockwise, never skipping a latch. My jaw aches from clenching. My shoulders ache from relentless tension.
Saul frees himself from his apron. “Need help?”
“No.” I check the clock.
“You go first. Finn after, like always.” He nods, grabs his jacket, and slips out the back. One… two… three… four… I count to fifteen before his car rumbles alive. Good.
“My turn?” Finn leans in.
“Not yet.” I settle at the register, counting the day’s earnings with exacting fingers. He smirks.
“Normal bosses don’t time their employees’ exits like a heist.” “Good thing I’m not normal. Keys in the lockbox. Phone on. Straight to your car.” He drops his keys as he rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Text when you get home.”
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time.” I count again until his Honda sputters off.
Alone, the café feels cavernous, its silence heavy, corners and shadows conspiring. I finish at the register, then head to the kitchen. I unplug every appliance except the fridges, then wipe down every surface. At the back door, I check the lock, testing the handle three times. The routine is my shield.
Except tonight I check the back door and then stand there with my hand still on the handle, and I can't remember if I actually engaged the lock or just touched it. My brain ran the motion on autopilot and delivered no information.
I check it again. Locked. Obviously locked.
I check it one more time.
This is the part nobody tells you about fear. It’s not the dramatic part, not the dark shadow lurking or the Oregon calls or the man who showed up in a hospital room forty-eight hours after you'd had his baby. Those moments are terrible but they're navigable because the threat is external and visible and you can point at it.
The harder part is this, standing at a locked door you've already checked twice, unable to trust your own hands. Unable to trust that the distance you've built is actually keeping anyone safe. Unable to trust your own gut or instincts anymore.
I release the handle.
But routine is the only thing that keeps me grounded. Even when it stops working, I go through it anyway. Because thealternative is standing in an empty café at eight o'clock at night with nothing between me and the quiet.
In the office I pack Poppy’s toys into her diaper bag and fold the travel crib. I scan my call log and texts, skipping anything with an Oregon area code.
I take my final walkthrough, checking that the front door is locked, windows secured, lights off except the security lamps, and again test the back door. The knot in my chest loosens a fraction.
I exit through the back, lock it behind me, and inhale the cool night air. Empty parking lot. Good. I pause, then circle the building to the fire escape stairs leading up to my apartment.
