Grace’s fear snapped into something sharp and blinding.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice cracked.
He smiled again, wider this time. Satisfied.
“Tell your brother,” he said quietly, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosted across her ear, “that hiding doesn’t make things go away.”
Grace twisted sideways and jammed the key into the lock, hands shaking so badly she missed it the first time. The man stepped back just far enough to let her move—like he wanted her to know he was allowing it.
The door finally gave.
Grace shoved herself inside and slammed it shut, throwing the deadbolt with a violent snap. She leaned her full weight against the door, chest heaving, ears ringing with the sound of her own blood.
Outside, footsteps retreated.
Unhurried.
Confident.
Grace slid down until she was sitting on the floor, back pressed to the door, grocery bag spilling onto the tile beside her. An apple rolled free and bumped softly against the wall.
Her hands were shaking so badly she had to press them flat to her thighs to still them.
This wasn’t vandalism.
This wasn’t coincidence.
This was a warning.
Grace squeezed her eyes shut and dragged in a shaky breath.
“Eli,” she called, her voice sounded wrong even to her own ears.
Footsteps thundered from the living room.
“I’m here,” he said, already moving. “What happened?”
Someone knew where she lived.
Someone had touched her.
This fear didn’t feel abstract or distant or manageable.
And it wasn’t going away.
“…so you didn’t recognize him.”
Grace looked up from the table, the words catching her a half-second late.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
Officer Mercer stood near the counter, not sitting, not relaxed—one hand on his belt. Officer Sullivan lingered by the back door, flashlight in hand, though his attention was toward Eli more than the backyard.
Mercer tapped his pen against the notepad. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“And he knew your brother’s name,” Mercer said. Not a question.
“Yes.”
