“Stay on the main road until you hit the split,” he continues. “Take the left. You’ll lose signal about halfway up.”
“Good to know,” I mutter.
“Maddie.”
My name in his voice does something.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stop,” he says. “Not for anything.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “You think someone’s?—”
“I think you waited too long to call,” he cuts in.
A chill slides down my spine.
“Drive,” he says.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a second longer.
Then move.
Fast.
I grab my keys, my bag, the photograph—shoving everything into motion without letting myself think too hard about what I’m doing.
The cabin suddenly feels too small.
Too exposed.
I lock the door behind me, scanning the clearing one last time.
Nothing.
But the feeling is still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
“Not today,” I murmur.
I climb into the Jeep and start the engine, tires spitting gravel as I pull away.
The road winds through the trees, narrow and uneven. Shadows stretch across the path, the forest closing in tighter the farther I go.
My pulse doesn’t settle.
If anything, it builds.
Thirty minutes to a man I don’t know.
Thirty minutes away from something Ido.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
