I send her a message before I can talk myself out of it:My name is Savannah Beauregard. I'm engaged to Thaddeus Whitmore. I think you knew him in college. I need to talk to you. Please.
I don't expect a response. Why would she want to dredge up whatever happened between them? Why would she risk getting involved with Thad again? But twenty minutes later, my laptop chimes with a notification, and my heart starts racing before I even open it.
Rebecca:How did you find me?
I type back quickly:College newspaper archive. A photo from a gala. I'm sorry to contact you like this, but I need to know what happened between you and Thad. I think I'm in danger.
The response takes longer this time. I'm starting to think she's not going to answer when the message finally comes through:I can't talk about this online. If you're serious, meet metomorrow. 2 p.m. Powell's Books in Portland. Main entrance. Come alone.
Portland. I’ll have to catch a flight from New York. But I don't hesitate before typing:I'll be there.
—
Romeo findsme booking the flight, and his expression shifts from confusion to concern, then to something harder when I explain what I'm doing.
"You're flying to Portland to meet one of Whitmore's ex-girlfriends." His voice is careful, but I can hear the tension underneath. "Alone."
"She won't talk to me if I bring anyone else. She's terrified, Romeo. She changed her name. That means something happened."
"It means Whitmore did something to her that made her run." He's pacing now, and I can see him calculating the risks. "She might not be stable. She might?—"
"She might be the key to stopping him." I close my laptop and stand up, moving into his path so he has to stop and look at me. "I'm not asking for permission. I'm telling you what I'm doing. You can either support me or you can try to stop me, but I'm going either way."
The silence that follows is tense, charged with all the things we're both trying not to say. Finally, he reaches out and cups my face, and his touch is gentle despite the violence I can see simmering in his eyes. "I'm not trying to control you," he says quietly. "I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I know. But I need to do this. I need to—" I struggle to find the words. "I need to stop being the thing that's fought over. I need to be the one fighting."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see the instinct to protect me warring with the understanding that I'm asking him to trust me, to let me have agency even when it scares him. Finally, he nods.
"Luca goes with you. He’ll stay outside the bookstore. He won’t come in unless you signal him. But I'm not letting you fly across the country without backup."
It's a compromise, and we both know it. "Okay."
"And Savannah?" His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "If she tells you something that makes you think Whitmore is more dangerous than we already know, you tell me immediately. No trying to handle it yourself. No trying to protect me from the truth."
"I promise."
He kisses me. It's soft and fierce at the same time, and I can feel everything he's not saying in the way he holds me—his fear and the desperate need to keep me safe while still letting me be myself.
But he’s letting me go. And that’s a step in the right direction.
—
Powell's Books is exactlythe kind of place I would have loved under different circumstances—a massive bookstore with room after room of floor-to-ceiling shelves. But I'm too nervous to appreciate it as I walk through the main entrance at exactly 2 p.m., scanning the crowd for a woman who might be Rebecca.
She finds me first. "Savannah?"
I turn and see her standing near the poetry section. She has dark hair cut short, and she’s wearing jeans, a cashmere sweater, and a leather jacket. She's pretty in an understated way, like someone who's learned to make herself less noticeable.
"Rebecca." I move toward her, and she takes a step back instinctively before catching herself. "Thank you for meeting me."
"I almost didn't come." Her voice is soft. "I spent years trying to forget Thad Whitmore existed. And then you show up asking questions, and suddenly I'm right back there."
"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have contacted you if I had any other choice."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her taking in the exhaustion in my face and the desperation I can’t quite hide. Finally, she gestures toward a quiet corner near the back of the store.
"Let's sit. This isn't a conversation I want to have standing up."
