Chapter 10
Laurette Devereux
Nothing screams spiralinglike stalking your own mailbox before sunrise.
The second I step into my heels and shrug on my blazer, something tightens in my gut. A pulse. A whisper.
Check the mailbox.
I grab my phone and step outside, heels tapping against the walkway, the morning air already thick with heat and magnolia. The street is quiet as the sun crests over the rooftops. The city hasn’t fully stirred.
My eyes scan my surroundings. Nothing. Of course, no one’s here this early.
I open the mailbox and… fuck me. It’s there.
Another note.
Cream linen this time. Thick. Expensive. Monogrammed with a black B. The ink is deep, not ballpoint or gel. A calligraphy pen, maybe.
My breath catches as I lift the flap. No seal. No glue. No barrier.
Just invitation.
Ican’t get you out of my fucking head. See you soon, Laurette.
—B
My stomach flips, a tight coil twisting low. He was here again.Right here.
I glance around. He could be out there now, watching me, hidden just beyond sight.
My fingers tighten around the card, knuckles whitening. “It was almost flattering at first. But let’s get something straight. You don’t get to decide you’re the one.Iget to decide which man is in my life. That’smychoice.”
The trees don’t rustle, and the wind doesn’t answer. Still, I sense it. He’s somewhere obsessing over me, even if he’s not here.
Back inside, I slip the envelope into my blazer pocket. I open the security app on my phone and scrub through the footage from last night.
There he is, the same as Friday. He walks to the mailbox, opens it, and slides the envelope inside. No hesitation. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fidget. He stands there, staring at my house.
At me.
Then he turns and walks away, same direction as before. He disappears from the frame, his vehicle never once coming into view.
He has all the control, every last inch of it, and the fact that I don’t is something I’m not built for. It constantly worms its way into my thoughts, throwing my center of gravity off.
I’ll knock on every neighbor’s door if I have to. Pull footage. Track routes. Build a timeline. Find the pattern he thinks I won’t see.
I’m the fucking Assistant District Attorney of Orleans Parish. I do not get stalked.
Not in my city. Not on my street. Not without a fight.
If he thinks he’s hunting me, he’s about to learn what happens when the prey bites back.
The office is louder than usual when I walk in—not with voices but with energy. Phones light up. People cluster in small groups, murmuring. Eyes flicker toward me.
I set my coffee down, already annoyed. “Okay, who died?”
Tobias is at my desk before the words finish leaving my mouth. “Silas Rourke.”
