“Excuse me?” a lady says from behind us.
I let go of Rhett’s hand and turn to see the gallery owner standing in a sleek black suit, a powerful looking professional woman with stylish glasses and a gleaming nametag.
“Yes, Marjorie?” I ask.
“This might sound… but are you Elara Vance?”
I squeeze Mira’s hand, pulling her instinctively against me. The woman looks terrified.
“Why?”
Rhett steps forward, half blocking us with his bulk. “Say what you need to say, Marjorie.”
“I got a text fifteen minutes ago, and it said—” She pauses, shuddering. “It said that if you came in here, a woman and a girl, and a man, all matching your descriptions, I had to tell you, Elara…”
“It’s okay,” Rhett says with surprising softness. “Take your time.”
Marjorie lowers her voice to a hiss. “I can’t say it with the little one there.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Rhett says. “Come on. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
They step away. The woman gestures and talks as they cross to the other side of the gallery. I clutch Mira to me because I know this is bad. I know it’s starting again.
Rhett returns, his face twisted in pure hatred.
“What?” I whisper.
He leans in close and talks into my ear. His warm breath tickling down my neck is my only anchor for any kind of comfort. “An anonymous number texted her. Said that if we came in here, she needed to tell you…”
“Rhett.” I grip his shirt, feel his hard abs beneath. “Tell me.”
“The texter is watching you. Waiting. They enjoyed going through your house when you weren’t home. They enjoyed watching you sleep. And they’re going to enjoy…killing you.”
The words hit me like a Mac truck, but I don’t let it show. Mira is pressed tightly against me, standing on her tiptoes as though she’s trying to hear.
“Thank you for not lying,” I murmur.
“My concern is, how did he know we were here?Ifit is him.”
“It’s him,” I say. “Who else would go through all this trouble? Follow us? Find out this gallery owner’s phone number?”
“How did he even know we’d come in here?” Rhett grunts.
“He knows I like photography, remember. He knows how to hurt me.”
“Sissy.” Mira nudges me urgently. “What are you talking about? What was the message?”
I stroke my hand over her hair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.” I can barely even think it.
“You’re talking abouthim,” Mira snaps. “That’s what it sounds like.”
Oh, crap. She’s right. I’m not used to lying to her. But I can’t tell her that Lucian is out, can’t shatter her entire worldview and feeling of safety.
“He’s in prison,” I hiss. “We’re talking about… the…”
“The person in the woods? Who smoked the cigarette?”
I swallow, disgusted with myself. “Yes.”
