It stayed lodged in my chest, heavy and cold and certain, and suddenly I hated Dani’s joke. Hated my attraction to Wyatt. Hated needing anyone at all.
Because when real trouble came knocking, I did not want to be someone’s responsibility.
I ran the rest of my errands on sheer stubborn momentum. Feed store. Post office. Hardware store. I kept moving because stopping felt like surrender. If I stopped doing normal things, he won.
By the time I crossed back toward my truck, the late afternoon sun was low and sharp, throwing long shadows across the lot. I slowed.
Something was off.
The truck was locked, but the driver’s window had smudges on the glass. Not mine. I always rolled it down by gripping the top. These prints were lower, angled differently.
Someone had leaned in close.
My breathing thinned. I scanned the lot. Nothing unusual. Just people. Just trucks. No grey sedan.
Then I saw it.
A small white envelope tucked under the driver’s side wiper blade.
My name written across the front. Underlined twice.
No one in town would leave me a note like that. No one knew me well enough, or no one cared enough.
Except him.
My fingers felt disconnected as I reached for the envelope. It was thin. Too light. My mouth went dry as I opened it.
Inside were photos.
My barn, the door open, and Wyatt’s truck parked in front. The night the horse colicked. Then there was another one of Wyatt’s arms around my waist at Ray’s funeral, Brooke and I laughing at something at the front desk. Then there was the front door of my home.
These were all recent. Intentional. Close. I didn’t bother looking through the rest, my stomach was in knots, and I didn’t want to know how truly close he’d gotten...
At the bottom, scrawled on a piece of paper, dark ink:
You’re not safe out here alone.
Come home, Tess.
C.
I didn’t realize I’d backed into the truck until the metal pressed into my spine.
This wasn’t a phone call.
Wasn’t a text.
Wasn’t an angry ex.
This was a warning. A threat dressed up as concern.
I shoved the photo back into the envelope and scanned the lot again, panic licking up my spine. Every stranger looked wrong. Every car felt like it could be his.
I climbed into the truck and locked the doors immediately. My hands shook so badly I dropped the keys twice before managing to start the engine.
“Go,” I whispered. “Just go.”
As I pulled out of the lot, I kept checking the mirrors, searching for that grey sedan, those tinted windows, that smile.
