Page 49 of Until You

But I don’t hear another word because I notice the screen of my phone.

Missed Call. Uncle Peter.

Twice.

I stare at the screen again and uncertainty washes through me. Missed calls are no big deal. In fact, I purposely miss a lot of calls because it’s so much easier to text.

But not from “Uncle Peter.”

Not unless I’m in danger.

I mutter a distracted thank you and hurry out of the Annex. No message was left—not that I expect there to be—but that makes it even worse. Within seconds, I’m behind the wheel of my car, doors locked, and calling the number back with trembling fingers.

But no one picks up the call.

Not the first time I dial.

Not the second time either.

“It’s probably nothing,” I mumble as I type in the name Kaleo Makani on my phone and hit enter.

It’s never nothing if I’m called.

The screen populates with headline after headline about an attempt on the life of a former associate of Kaleo’s. I scan the first article quickly as my heart races and my mouth grows dry. Phrases like “still in control,” “ordered from his cell,” “out for revenge,” clutter the screen.

I stare at the search page until my eyes burn and my head spins and the need to get home to my own bubble owns my every thought.

Relief washes over me when I pull into my drive. For a few seconds, I rest my forehead on my hand on the steering wheel and draw in a few shaky breaths to calm myself. Uncle Peter would call back if contact was critical.

Stop jumping to conclusions, Ten.

Nothing has changed. Your life isn’t hers anymore.

But when I start to get out of my Jeep, I notice the side door to my garage swung wide open. I freeze, one foot on the ground, one foot still in the car, as I look around.

The pots on my porch have been moved. It should be three to the left and two to the right of the steps.

The security door is open, the mat in front of it is askew. I always have it straight, butted up against the jamb. Always.

The panic I felt earlier from a simple missed call becomes full-fledged terror.

Get out of here, Tess. Go!

I slam the car door, start the engine, and floor it in reverse.

Tenny.

I’m Tenny now.

Someone slams on their horn, but the billowing cloud of dust I just dug up is too thick for me to see through. I’m trapped. Unable to leave my driveway. A bumper less than a foot from my driver’s side door.

Terror streaks through me.

I’m trapped. He has me trapped.

My hands shake so hard that I drop my phone to the floor when I try to dial 911. Desperate and terrified, I climb over the console to the passenger side and fling the door open and nearly fall out.

Arms close around me, catching me, and I fight against them.