A few days have passed, but my body hasn’t caught up. I’m still waking up hard, heart pounding, certain I’m trapped in that trunk again. Ethan keeps the hallway light on for me at night and pretends it’s because he “forgot.” I let him pretend.
I’m sitting on his couch now, wrapped in one of his flannels because it smells like cedar and safety, staring out at the lake. The water is glassy, early sunlight slicing across it like someone had taken a blade and drawn a single, perfect line.
I should feel safe. Iamsafe, technically. Ethan said Michael Sheifer will never be a problem again. And Ethan doesn’t make promises lightly—he says something, it’s gospel.
I didn’t ask how he knew, and I don’t want to know either.
But I know the look in his eyes when he said it. Dead calm. Absolute. Final.
So yeah… Sheifer’s gone. Forever.
Sam disappeared from Cedar Falls as fast as he’d appeared, like he was never here at all. Those two were vague as hell about whatthey did together in the army, and I’m not stupid enough to dig. Whatever they were trained for… it wasn’t regular soldier stuff. It was the kind that stays off record and off lips.
Fine by me.
I want normal. Or my version of normal—which is basically chaos but without the stalking and attempted-murder seasoning.
My phone buzzes, and I flinch. That’s new. I hate it.
Banks’ name flashes on the screen. I take a breath and answer.
He goes straight into manager mode.
“Lu, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Are you okay? You sound—different.”
“I’m fine, Banks.” I tuck my knees to my chest. “Just… had a rough week. I’m good now.”
I don’t tell him about Sheifer.
About the kidnapping.
About the screaming in the woods.
No. That gets buried in Cedar Lake Falls, where it belongs.
He clears his throat. “Well. Crisis or not, we need you in LA. The new track? I want you to record a demo ASAP. Got a meeting lined up with a label that specializes in indie artists.”
“Good,” I say. “But I’m not coming back to LA.”
Silence. Then—“Come again?”
“I made my decision. I’m done with all that noise. I want you to find a recording studio in New York. A producer out here on the East Coast. I live inNew York.Not LA.”
I glance out the window again. The lake barely moves.
“I’m staying in Cedar Lake Falls.”
A beat. Then Banks laughs—relieved, delighted, maybe a little shocked. “Holy hell, Lu. You sound… centered. I like this. I really like this.”
“I’m working on it,” I mutter.
“Oh—before I forget—Connect Records called again. They want to hear your new sound. Open to negotiate.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp and hot. “I’m never working with them again.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I told them to shove it. Lawyers are handling the contract. You’re done with Jett Langford. Officially.”
My chest loosens. Just a little. A quiet I can live with.
