Chapter 151: Frost on the Windshield

The drive back from the Joneses’ house always felt like walking out of a warm room into a snowstorm. The heavy wooden front door clicked shut behind us, cutting off the smell of cinnamon tea and my sisters' arguing over a box of crayons, leaving only the sharp chill of the air.

Nate took my hand as we walked down the cracked concrete path toward his car, his fingers sliding between mine with a grounding pressure. Neither of us spoke. The quiet wasn’t the easy kind from dinner; it was heavier, like we were both thinking about the same thing.

He had kept his promise. He had sat on a living room rug covered in glitter glue, let a six‑year‑old tie his dark hair into a chaotic mess of neon pink and yellow rubber bands, and laughed when Grace dropped her water glass. He had given me that safe space, even if it couldn’t follow us home. He had let me breathe. He had let me forget.

But forgetting never lasted long.

The Alverstone hallways will be there tomorrow. So would the whispers.

When we reached his car, parked a short distance down the block, away from the glow of the bungalow’s porch light, Nate let go of my hand. He stepped around to the passenger side to unlock my door, his boots crunching sharply on the frost‑covered asphalt. The sound echoed in the quiet street, too loud, like the night itself was listening.

He didn’t move to open it.

His hand hovered an inch from the handle, his broad shoulders suddenly freezing under the fabric of his coat. His gaze was locked on the front windshield. Something in his posture changed, enough to make me pause.

“Nate?” I asked, my breath caught.

He didn’t answer. He stepped around the hood of the car, moving with a terrifying, coiled stillness, and reached out. The streetlamp overhead flickered once, throwing a brief, uneven shadow across the glass.

Pinned neatly beneath the heavy rubber wiper blade was a small, square envelope made of thick, cream-colored cardstock.

My stomach tightened, and I felt suddenly unsteady. The cold air suddenly felt too thin to breathe. My fingers curled into my palms, nails pressing into skin as if that alone could keep me upright.

Nate pulled the envelope free with two fingers, his movements terrifyingly controlled. He turned it over in his palm. Even in the dim, amber wash of the streetlamp overhead, the heavy flash lighting and the high‑contrast gloss of the print were unmistakable through the paper.

Another copy.

A flush crept up my neck, followed by a cold shiver. Placed right here, on his vehicle, while we sat inside eating dinner with my little sisters just a few dozen yards away. While Zoe was laughing and braiding his hair, someone had walked up to this exact car, pressed this piece of evidence against the glass, and left it waiting for us.

My throat tightened. I didn’t need to open the envelope to know what was inside. I could see it in the way Nate’s fingers pressed into the cardstock, in the way his shoulders went still. The photograph. That photograph. The one angled to make a tense conversation behind the library look like something else entirely.

Heat rushed up my neck, sharp and humiliating. “Nate—” I started, the words tumbling out too fast. “It’s not what it looks like. I swear. He cornered me. I didn’t—”

He didn’t look at me yet, but something in his posture shifted — not doubt, not hesitation. Just focus; the kind he used when he was already sure of something.

It wasn’t just a message anymore. It was someone trying to wedge a lie between us, someone trying to twist a moment into a weapon. The person who left it knew exactly what they were doing.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to keep the cold from sinking deeper. The street felt too open, too exposed. Every shadow looked like it was waiting for a reaction. My pulse thudded in my ears, too loud, too fast. I hated that I sounded defensive, hated that I had to explain something that wasn’t real.

Nate stared down at the paper for a long moment. The silence between us felt dense, but not because he doubted me — because he was angry on my behalf. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his fingers bent the edge of the envelope. He wasn’t breathing normally. His chest rose and fell in slow, careful breaths, as if he were keeping himself in check.

I took a small step toward him, my boots crunching softly on the frost. “Nate,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “It’s staged. You know that, right? You know I wouldn’t—”

He finally looked up.

And the second his eyes met mine, the panic in my chest cracked open. There was no suspicion in his face. No flicker of doubt. Just a steady, unwavering certainty — the kind that didn’t need explanations.

“I know,” he said quietly, before I could finish. “Mila. I know.”

The words hit harder than the cold. My breath caught. He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t wondering if I had lied to him. He was furious — but not at me.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The streetlamp buzzed overhead. A dog barked somewhere down the block. The frost on the windshield glimmered like tiny shards of glass. Everything felt too sharp, too still, but the space between us wasn’t.

“They were here,” I said, my voice barely holding together. “While we were inside.”

Nate’s jaw tightened further, but his voice stayed low and controlled. “I know,” he repeated, and this time the words carried something protective, something absolute.

He stepped closer to me, the envelope still in his hand. His presence didn’t erase the fear, but it steadied it — like a hand pressed gently against the center of my back, keeping me upright.

“We’re not staying out here,” he said quietly. “Get in the car.”

I nodded, my fingers trembling as I reached for the door handle. The cold metal stung my skin. I slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind me. The interior smelled faintly like cedar and the lingering warmth of the heater. It felt safer than the street, but only barely.

Nate rounded the hood and got in on his side. He didn’t start the engine right away. He sat there for a moment, the envelope resting on his knee, his hands braced on the steering wheel. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady.

“They’re not going to touch you,” he said.

I stared at the envelope, my pulse thudding in my ears. “They already have.”

Nate’s gaze flicked toward me, and something in his expression softened—not the fury, but the part of him that lived underneath it. The part that had let Zoe braid his hair. The part that had sat on a carpet covered in glitter glue. The part that had held my hand all the way to the car.

“They won’t again,” he said.