“Oh.” I swallow. “Is this about the murder?” I ask.
“It is.” He nods before stepping forward and placing his hand on the small of my back. “I’d feel a great deal of peace knowing you made it home safely.”
Focusing on the heat of his hand, I fumble my keys as my heart rate picks up.
To be honest, after my walk this morning, I’m kind of nervous to walk home all alone. I didn’t lie when I said it was a lovely night, but I also won’t lie and say a part of me doesn’t want him to drive me home.
“Well, all right. If you don’t mind then, I’d greatly appreciate it.” I smile up at him, noting his hand still on the small of my back.
We head out into the warm evening air, and I lock the door behind us before following West to the cruiser parked in front of the bakery. Taking my hand, he walks me to the passenger door, opening it and waiting for me to get in.
“Thank you.”
He winks and softly shuts the door, walking around to the other side.
My blood hums at being in such a close and confined proximity to him, and I try to focus on calming my nerves.
As we make our way through town, we chat about how beautiful the weather has been and our plans for the coming weekend. West tells me he’ll have Sunday off and get to spend it on his parents’ farm helping his dad build a new chicken coop,and I tell him Sarah and I have plans to go out for dinner and a few drinks Saturday evening at Buckles. Sunday will be spent in lounge wear while I get a head start on planning for the Kick Off to Summer event next weekend.
Between our conversations, I sneak little glances his way and feel like a little school girl the way my stomach swoops.
Far too soon, we pull into the driveway of my house, and I thank him for the ride.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he says, resting his hand on the small of my back as we make our way up the steps.
“Can I drive you home tomorrow as well?” he asks when we reach the door, and my stomach flutters.
“I’d like that very much.”
“I’ll pick you up after work then.” He gives me a nod and makes sure I get in safely before walking down the steps back to his cruiser.
When I close the door softly behind me, Pumpkin comes running down the hall to greet me.
“Well hello, my darling kitten. What did you do all day?” I ask, scooping her in my arms where she nestles in the crook and begins to purr.
Four months ago, the local animal shelter held an adoption day event where I was supposed to drop off a bunch of baked goods, and while there, the cage of tiny kittens caught my eye. As soon as I saw this fluffy ball of orange fur, I knew I just had to have her. Pumpkin is a six-month-old Persian, and I’m forever thankful we found each other. She’s the sweetest and most cuddly kitten, and I love her dearly.
After setting her down on my bed, I change into some comfy sweats and throw my hair into a messy bun before heading to the kitchen and starting a cup of tea.
Taking all my things into the living room, I sit down on the floor and open my sewing basket, grabbing a needle and thread to begin working on a new shirt.
A couple of years ago, Sarah’s grandma taught me how to embroider, and it’s become a relaxing hobby of mine. I love adding little details to shoes and clothing to make them unique. I finish threading the wordsBakers gonna Bakeonto the front and move underneath to add a cookie, cupcake, and pie slice for extra detail.
Once finished, I hold it up proudly. Sarah will get a kick out of this one.
The remainder of the evening is spent cuddling up on the couch with Pumpkin, eating left-over lasagna and checking emails.
I’m halfway through them when one without a subject line garners my attention. Clicking on to the email, I wait for the page to load before my blood runs cold and I start to shake.
On the screen before me is a familiar news article. It’s the one from the other day that I searched up regarding the ten-year anniversary of my attack. My fingers tremble as I continue to scroll through the email, and when I get to the bottom of the page, I gasp and slam the top down.
My breathing is rapid, and my head spins. I can still see the bold lettering of the email behind my eyelids, and I begin to tremble. Very slowly, I lift the lid of the laptop back open and swallow down a tremor when I’m face-to-face with big red lettering that says,
DOES HE KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE?
Pumpkin senses my unease and lets out a hiss before taking off down the hall. Swallowing my fear, I highlight the emailaddress in the sender’s box and copy it into a search bar. When I get no hits, I let out a sigh and try to think.
Is the him they are referring to West? It’s the only logical explanation. But how do they know who I am? The only people other than myself who even know I’m alive are Detective Nick and the doctor who signed off on my death certificate.
