She was in there.
But no frantic texts to her men. No police call. No reaction.
Interesting.
I need to nudge her.
Trigger curiosity.
Maybe bump into her. Let her feel seen.
And then she’ll open the notebook.
And then she’ll understand.
I’m not prey.
I’m the hunter who wants to be caught.
I pull out a burner phone. Text her.
[Screenshot of her at the farmer’s market. Taken from behind. Yellow dress. Sunflower in hand.]
No message.
Just the photo.
Let her wonder.
Chapter Eleven
Vitaly
The walk-in cooler is 38 degrees.
I know because I check the thermometer seventeen times a day.
Consistency matters.
Temperature. Timing. Trust.
Control the variables. Survive.
I’m sitting on a flour sack. Back against the metal shelf. Breathing clouds.
My phone is in my hand.
Juliet’s text from last night glows in the dim light.
Juliet: I can’t stop thinking about those sunflowers. Or the man who picked them. Coffee sometime?
I’ve read it forty-three times.
Each time, my chest does something stupid.
Tightens. Expands. Aches.
Like rising dough. Like proof of life.
