CHAPTER 43
Not peaceful, quiet, not the kind you melt into with a sigh. The other kind. The kind that hums in your ears and makes you hyperaware of your own breathing.
No music. No podcast. No hum of talk radio or cheerful GPS lady. Just tires on pavement and the occasional blinker.
Sometimes I like quiet—but today it feels wrong.
I lean my head back and exhale, trying to shake off the knot of tension that’s lived behind my ribs since I found that body this morning. And yet, as strange as this ride feels, something’s off.
It’s the same driver who picked me up from the vet’s office last week.
I didn’t realize it until he was already pulling away. But it’s the same guy. Same lemon-scented air freshener. Same spotless floorboards and CrossFit-branded water bottle.
That vet’s office is over an hour away. Which makes this… either a coincidence or a very ambitious commute.
He glances at me in the mirror as we hit a red light, catching me staring and offers a pleasant, neutral smile.
“Traffic’s brutal around here this time of day. Took me forever to get across town.”
I nod absently, still unsure whether to feel comforted or trapped.
“Funny seeing you again all the way out here,” I say.
“Yeah, I run this whole area,” he replies. “I live nearby. Lot of repeat customers—it’s more common than people think.”
That makes sense. Sort of.
The light changes and we keep going.
He asks about my dog—remembers him poking his head out of my purse, all attitude and fluff.
“I’ve got a big mutt at home,” he says. “Total food vacuum. Eats everything but the leash.”
I chuckle. “Mine’s the opposite. Dexter thinks he’s royalty. Won’t eat unless his kibble’s been blessed by a Michelin chef. I’m basically a prisoner in a hostage negotiation over turkey-flavored wet food.”
He laughs, and for a moment, it feels normal again.
Until I glance at the windshield.
“You got any other dogs or just the one?”
There’s a sticker. Small, fresh. A private school crest—white, navy, and gold. I’ve seen it before.
It’s the academy across from the vet’s office.
My stomach flips.
“Uh, yeah. First-time dog mom.”
If he lives nearby, why would his kid go to school out there? Not impossible. But it doesn’t click.
The geography’s off and now I’m too warm.
He turns down my street, following the app but still, my gut is screaming. I open mybSafeapp and hit the fake call feature.
A woman—single or not—can never be too careful.
He speaks as the app goes off.
“You live here alone, or is your husband just out of town?” Asked lightly but my throat tightens at the question.
I laugh—just enough to pretend I didn’t hear the shift. “Oh, speak of the devil.”
I answer and give my best “Hi, honey,” “Two minutes away,” and “See you soon, babe.”
Pretending to hang up, I grab the bag of dog food.
“Well, if you ever need more regular rides, I do private arrangements outside the app. More flexible. Cheaper too.”
He pulls a small stack of cards from the center console, offers one over his shoulder.
“Take it. Just in case.”
I hesitate. No good reason not to take it. Not without making it weird.
So, I do.
Fingers brush the glossy cardstock. I fake a smile that feels hot-glued to my face.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking it into my bag like I’m not already planning to burn it when I get home.
“Have a good one,” he says, watching in the mirror as I step out.
I murmur another thank-you and shut the door.
He pulls away slowly.
Only when the taillights disappear do I finally breathe.
Then, I bolt.
I all but launch myself down the drive to the side entry like I’m in a horror movie and the killer’s right behind me with theme music and a ski mask.
My fingers fumble with the keyring—come on—and I drop one of the bags. I pick it up with a shaking hand, glancing around in paranoid terror.
The key finally slides into the lock. I shove the door open, slam it so hard I nearly take off my own shoulder. Two clicks of the deadbolt. Alarm on. Chain set.
I press my forehead to the door and let out a breath I’ve been holding since I saw that sticker.
“I’m losing my mind,” I whisper, heading for the drawer in the hutch—the one that holds reassurance.
My mother’s knife.
I don’t know why I grab it. But the weight settles in my palm, and something in me slows.
Calmer.
Not fine—but closer to functional.
My pulse steadies. My spine straightens.
The edge of the panic backs off enough to let me breathe.
But it doesn’t stay away. It starts crawling back under my skin, slick and sharp.
My fingers rise to my scalp without me noticing, nails scratching the same patch they always find when I spiral—like I’m trying to dig out the thought that started it.
Everything feels chaotic. Wrong.
But I can fix that.
Cleaning helps.
It has order. A beginning, a middle, an end. Cause and effect. Something that still obeys the laws of sanity.