Chapter 82 Uncle Tom
The next morning, Jasmine woke up screaming.
Her body jerked upright, lungs burning as if she had been dragged out of deep water. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through her ribs.
“No—no—” she gasped.
The room was dark, but not empty.
Richelle was beside her instantly, sitting up and grabbing her shoulders. “Jas! Jasmine, hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re safe.”
Jasmine’s hands were shaking. Her nightshirt clung to her back, damp with sweat. Her chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow.
Richelle pulled her into her arms without hesitation. “It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.”
Jasmine buried her face in Richelle’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her friend’s lotion and soap.
But the images clung to her mind—him standing in the doorway, his eyes dark, his voice low and threatening. Raymond beside him, watching, smiling.
Her throat closed.
Richelle rubbed slow circles on her back. “Do you want to tell me what you saw?”
Jasmine shook her head.
Something was wrong. Richelle could feel it in the way Jasmine’s body stayed rigid, in the way she didn’t relax even after her breathing slowed.
“Jas…” Richelle said gently. “You don’t have to be scared here.”
Jasmine pulled away and nodded, forcing a weak smile. “I’m fine. Really. Just… a bad dream.”
Richelle didn’t believe her, but she didn’t press.
They stayed sitting there for a while, the early light creeping through the curtains. When Jasmine finally lay back down, sleep didn’t come again.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of unease.
Jasmine moved through the house like a shadow. Every sound made her flinch. Every footstep outside the door sent her heart racing. The guards stationed outside only made it worse—their presence a reminder that danger existed, that safety was something that had to be enforced.
She tried to distract herself. She made tea she didn’t drink. She opened a book she didn’t read. She watched television without seeing anything on the screen.
Richelle watched her from the kitchen doorway.
“You’ve been pacing for an hour,” Richelle said. “Sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”
Jasmine tried to laugh. It came out thin. She sat, then stood again almost immediately.
“I don’t feel right,” she admitted.
“Physically or emotionally?”
Jasmine hesitated. “Both.”
Richelle walked over and took her hands. “Talk to me.”
Jasmine’s fingers were cold. “I feel like something bad is going to happen.”
“That’s anxiety.”
“No,” Jasmine said softly. “It’s more than that.”
Richelle frowned. “What do you mean?”
Jasmine’s gaze flicked to the windows, then to the door. The guards stood outside, silhouettes through the glass.
“I feel like… he’s coming.”
Richelle’s brow creased. “Who’s coming?”
Jasmine swallowed. “Someone I hoped I never have to see again.”
Richelle stiffened. “Jasmine. Who?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why?”
“Because if I say it out loud, it feels more real.”
Richelle guided her to the couch and sat beside her. “You can’t carry this alone.”
Jasmine hugged her arms around herself. “If I stay here… he’ll find me. I know it.”
Richelle studied her face. The fear wasn’t imagined. It was deep, old, rooted in something Jasmine had never fully explained.
“Has he tried to find you before?” Richelle asked carefully.
Jasmine didn’t answer right away. Her lips parted, then closed again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Richelle sighed. “Okay. We don’t have to. But you can’t spiral like this all day.”
She stood abruptly and clapped her hands once. “We’re going out.”
Jasmine blinked. “What?”
“We’re leaving the house. Fresh air. Normal people. Food.”
“The guards—”
“They’ll come too. You won’t be alone.”
Jasmine hesitated. The thought of stepping outside made her chest tighten, but staying inside felt worse.
“Okay,” she said finally.
They got dressed in silence. Jasmine chose a sweater even though the day was warm. She liked the way it made her feel hidden.
Outside, the world looked ordinary. Too ordinary for the fear that still churned inside her.
They sat at a small corner table by the café window, where the afternoon light spilled in through wide panes of glass and softened everything it touched. Outside, people passed by in pairs and clusters, laughing, arguing, living ordinary lives. Inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries clung to the air.
Jasmine wrapped both hands around her cup, nursing it as though it were the only solid thing anchoring her to the present moment. The porcelain was hot—almost too hot—but she welcomed the sting against her palms. It grounded her.
Reminded her she was here, now, not there, then.
Her eyes kept drifting toward the door.
Every time it opened, her shoulders tensed. Every bell chime above the frame made her breath hitch. A man in a gray coat walked in—too tall. Her heart jumped. A woman followed with a stroller—safe. Jasmine exhaled slowly, ashamed of how tightly fear coiled inside her chest.
Richelle sat across from her, stirring sugar into her drink with exaggerated patience. She had noticed it too—Jasmine’s jumpy glances, the way her fingers trembled slightly against the mug, the way she seemed to be listening for something no one else could hear.
“Jas” Richelle said softly, tilting her head. “You okay?”
Jasmine forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Richelle didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push. Not yet.
At a nearby table, the guards sat stiff-backed and alert. They hadn’t ordered anything—not even water. Two men in dark jackets, eyes sweeping the café every few seconds. They looked painfully out of place among couples on lunch dates and college students with laptops. Their presence was meant to protect her, but instead it made everything feel louder.
Sharper.
Like danger had a seat reserved at the table with them. Jasmine hated it, she hated that she needed them. She hated that she couldn’t feel safe without them. She hated that peace always felt temporary. Her thumb traced the rim of the cup in slow circles as her thoughts spiraled.
Everything that had happened with Ray—every ugly memory, every flash of his face—had torn open something she thought she had locked away. It reminded her that the world didn’t pause just because she wanted it to. That happiness could be borrowed, but never owned.
Nothing good ever lasted. The thought settled heavy in her chest. Her phone buzzed on the table.
Jasmine flinched.
She expected Damien’s name to light up the screen. Her heart had already leapt in anticipation of his voice, of something warm and familiar.
Instead, three words stared back at her:
Uncle Tom