CHAPTER 45
My hands are slick with sweat and rage, and the steering wheel’s starting to creak from how hard I’m holding it.
I’m talking to her without meaning to. Whispering like she can hear me through every red light I blow.
Stay calm, Sunshine. Don’t let him see you’re scared. Just a little longer.
I’m coming.
I’m coming for you, baby.
The car pulls up to the curb in front of her house.
The same fucking car that’s been circling over and over like a goddamn vulture waiting for the final breath.
She steps out.
My heart stops. I can’t fucking breathe.
Even the goddamn world stops spinning.
She’s okay. Still in one piece.
But she’s scanning—nervous. Her shoulders are tight, cheeks are flushed. Her keys are in her hand like a weapon, white-knuckled.
She knows something’s wrong. Not how wrong, but her instincts are firing.
“Good girl.”
She keeps her back to the house. Eyes on the car and she waits.
“Don’t turn your back, baby. Don’t give him the opening. You know better than that.”
The car doesn’t pull away just yet.
It lingers. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s hoping for something.
I slam the heel of my hand into the steering wheel and scream into the windshield.
“FUUUCKING MOVE!”
Drive. Away. You sick fuck.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
And I am.
He finally pulls off.
Paty watches, every muscle in her shoulders locked tight.
And I keep driving—every turn an act of war, every second counting down to when I can put my hands on him and make him sorry for ever setting eyes on my girl.
She doesn’t even know what almost happened.
Or maybe she does.
Maybe some part of her felt it. That primal itch under the skin that says you’re being watched. That hair-raising chill that whispersrun.
She’s sharp. Smarter than most.
She’s been surrounded by predators long enough to sniff one out when he’s breathing too close.
I fumble for my phone again and hit redial.
It rings.
Voicemail.
I slam my fist into the steering wheel so hard it cracks the plastic.
“Fuck!”
It echoes through the car like a gunshot. I don’t even flinch. I want the pain. I deserve it for letting her get that close to something I should’ve stopped.
The security feed on the iPad shows her slamming the door behind her, back pressed to it, panting like she just outran a goddamn monster.
“Good,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Good girl. You fucking felt it.”
She doesn’t know why, maybe. Can’t name it. But she knew.
And thank fucking God for that.
“Just stay inside, Paty. Please—fucking stay inside.”
My hands are shaking now, but not from fear. Not even from adrenaline.
It’s rage.
Boiling, blinding, bone-deep rage that’s been building in my bloodstream since I watched him sneak into her house. Since I saw what he left behind. Since I realized he was circling her, studying her, planning something slow and specific.
That fucker planted rope in her home like it was a starter kit for torture. He chose a blade for very specific pain.
And then he played the long game. Waited for the right moment when she was alone. For her car to vanish. For a ride request to pop up when she wasn’t thinking anything of it.
He engineered the entire moment.
And I let it happen.
My foot is welded to the gas, the speedometer long past legal, weaving through traffic like I’m on fire. Every car I pass is just an obstacle between me and her.
I try her other phone number even though I know she blocked me days ago.
It doesn’t ring. It just beeps three times.
It was stupid to hope, but even still, my heart drops like a stone.
I smack the dash with the heel of my hand so hard the whole console shudders. A light pops on that I don’t have time to read.
My knuckles are white on the wheel. My head’s pounding and still, I drive faster.
Because if he’s still out there... if he said something to her in the car that tipped her off, he may have noticed a change in her demeanor. He may decide to just do it now.
Double back.
No more waiting. No more slow-play.
Just a door kicked in, a scream that never finishes, and the sound of my Sunshine being snuffed out like a goddamn candle.
I whip around a corner so fast the tires scream in protest. A mailbox explodes in my rearview as I glance at the feed—and there he is.
He’s come back.
Pulling up slow. Parking a few houses down. That predatory creep of a man who already got her alone once has the audacity to roll back up.
Like he’s not a fucking monster walking on borrowed time.
The feed jumps. He gets out.
He slings a small backpack over his shoulders and snaps a belt around his waist.
My breath stops. My entire body locks up like I’ve been shot.
That’s gear.
That’s duct tape and zip ties and a second knife. That’s chloroform and gloves.
That’s a plan.
I can’t fucking lose her.
She’s the only speck of light in my dark world, and she doesn’t even know it yet. I haven’t been able to tell her. To show her.
And I may not get the fucking chance.
A sound tears from my throat like it’s being ripped out by claws, and I slam my fists into the steering wheel again and again and again.
“FUCK!”
“FUCK!”
“FUCK!”
Everything inside me fractures—rage detonating at the center of my chest—but underneath the heat, under the white-hot bloodlust, there’s something colder.
Something worse.
Terror.
Pure, unfiltered terror.
The kind that makes your vision go black around the edges. The kind that wraps around your spine and tells you:You’re too far. You’ll be too late.
Because what if I am?
What if he walks through that door?
What if she freezes?
What if all I do is watch it happen on this fucking screen?
I’ve been watching her for months—breathing her in through pixels and speakers and quiet moments no one else noticed—and now it might end with me watching her die.
Because I wasn’t fast enough.
Because I didn’t notice him in time. And now he’s back. And she’s inside. Alone.