"No." I wrap my arms around myself. "I'm sorry, Noah, but I need to get home."
The drive home with the twins passes in a blur. Rory and Corey chatter away, oblivious to the tension coiling in my chest. I force myself to respond appropriately, to smile and nod, while my mind races through worst-case scenarios.
At home, I help the boys with homework and make dinner on autopilot. Bath time, story time, tucking them into bed. The routine is comforting even as anxiety gnaws at my insides.
After they're asleep, I pour myself a glass of wine and collapse on the couch. The apartment feels too quiet, too empty. I pull out my phone to text Jack, then hesitate. What would I even say? That Marcus is threatening to expose us? That everything is falling apart?
I set the phone down and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the panic.
A sound makes my eyes snap open. The front door. I know I locked it. I always lock it.
I stand slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door is slightly ajar, a sliver of hallway light visible through the crack.
Terror floods through me. I grab the baseball bat Rory uses for practice and move toward the door, my hands slick with sweat. I push it open wider, peering into the empty hallway. Nothing. No one.
I close and lock the door, checking it twice. Then I move through the apartment, checking windows and the twins' room. Everything appears normal. The boys sleep peacefully, their faces relaxed and innocent.
In the kitchen, I pour another glass of wine with shaking hands. That's when I see it.
A photograph sits on the counter, propped against the fruit bowl. I don't remember putting it there. I've never seen it before.
I pick it up with trembling fingers. It's me, sitting in the gym at Riverside Academy. The angle suggests it was taken from across the room, zoomed in. I'm watching something on the court, my expression focused. The photo is recent, probably from last week's basketball game.
No note. No explanation. Just the photo.
My wine glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor. Red liquid spreads across the white surface like blood.
Someone was in my apartment. Someone left this photo. Someone has been watching me.
I grab my phone and dial Jack's number with shaking hands.
"Mia?" His voice is warm, concerned. "Everything okay?"
"Can you come over?" My voice cracks.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I clean up the broken glass and spilled wine, then check on the boys again. Still sleeping. Still safe. I pace the living room, jumping at every sound, until Jack's knock finally comes.
He fills the doorway, his broad shoulders and commanding presence immediately making me feel safer. His hazel eyes scan my face, taking in my pale skin and trembling hands.
"What happened?" He steps inside and closes the door behind him.
I hand him the photograph without speaking.
Jack's jaw tightens as he studies it. "Where did you get this?"
"Someone left it in my apartment. The door was unlocked when I checked earlier." My voice shakes. "Someone was in here, Jack. While I was putting the twins to bed."
He sets the photo down and pulls me against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong under my ear. "Did you call the police?"
"And tell them what? That someone left a photo? They'll think I'm paranoid."
"You're not paranoid. This is serious." His hands stroke my back in soothing circles. "We need to figure out who's doing this."
I pull back to look at him. "I think it might be Marcus. He threatened me at the park today. Said he'd tell everyone the truth about the twins' father if I don't give him another chance."
Jack's expression darkens. "He threatened you?"
