She chewed her lip, processing. I could practically see the gears turning.
“We could also relocate under someone else’s name,” I added. “New address. New lease. Put the paperwork under a business name or something so Silas can’t find it in a search.”
She nodded slowly, some of the panic draining from her posture. Not all of it. Not even most. But enough that she wasn’t vibrating anymore.
“While we debate a longer-term solution, I’ll talk to Jace.” I tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger. “With any luck, we’ll have security in place by tomorrow.”
She leaned into my hand, and for a moment, the kitchen was quiet. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft flicker of a lavender candle and the sound of two people holding on to each other because the alternative was unthinkable.
I pulled her against my chest and rested my chin on top of her head. Felt her arms wrap around my waist, her fingers gripping the back of my shirt like I might disappear.
I wouldn’t. Not if I had any say in it. I’d burn the whole world down before I let anyone take this from us.
The next day, Jace had a security team at our door by noon. Two guys. Former military. The kind of men who scanned rooftops out of habit and slept with one eye open. They parked a black SUV at the end of the driveway like a period at the end of a sentence.
We filed a police report about the photo. Handed over the phone. Answered every question they had. And then we waited.
Days passed. Then a week. Then two.
During which time, Harper had been on edge. When we got a flat tire, she was convinced it was Silas—biting her nail, fearfuleyes darting to every passing car, waiting for him to materialize. When junk mail arrived from a legal firm that specialized in wills, her hands went still over the envelope for a long moment before she set it down.
But nothing came of any of it. Small things. Explainable things. And the police kept reminding us there had been no new official incidents from Silas. No more photos. No more texts. No unknown numbers lighting up her phone in the dark.
“My guess is, he’s running out of money and running out of options,” the detective said. “Men like him don’t stick around when the game stops being fun.”
I wanted to believe that. Harper needed me to believe that.
So, I tried.
The security team became part of the background, and after a while, we stopped noticing them. Harper went back to work. We cooked dinner together and fell asleep on the couch, watching movies, and woke up with her hair in my mouth and her cold feet pressed against my shins.
Normal. We were building something normal.
And maybe that was the problem. Maybe we let ourselves become complacent …
56
KNOX
Three weeks had passed since that text lit up Harper’s phone.
NO ONE TAKES WHAT IS MINE.
Six words. No follow-up. No sighting. Just silence, which was almost worse. Silas had retreated into whatever hole he’d crawled out of, and the waiting was eating Harper alive.
We’d adapted. Two ex-military guys rotated shifts around the clock. Stationed at the front of the property, with perimeter checks every fifteen minutes. Police in the know too.
On paper, we were safe.
But safety and peace aren’t the same thing.
It was a Thursday night. Nothing special about it. That was the point.
Harper had come home from work with takeout and tired eyes, and we’d eaten on the couch with our legs tangled together, barely talking, not needing to.
This had become our routine. Quiet nights. Locked doors. Her body curled against mine, like she was trying to disappear into me.
Later, in bed, she told me she had a confession.
