Chapter 63 Kristen
I left campus later than usual, the sky already shifting into that halfway point between day and night where shadows stretch long and colors bleed into purple and rose. My head still buzzed with that bad feeling from earlier, like a phantom echo trapped beneath my skin. I should have shaken it off by then — logical explanations, mundane reasons — but the sensation lingered like an itch under bone, impossible to ignore.
My phone was dark, no notifications, no calls, no Leo messages. No signal. It was supposed to be reassuring — a moment of quiet — but right then, it felt like abandonment.
I turned off the main road toward home, slowing as the asphalt narrowed and the trees leaned closer, forming a canopy where dusk settled thick and low. The car felt heavy under my hands, like it was resisting the drive, echoing the unease in my shoulders.
When the engine cut, it was abrupt — a jerk mid‑turn that threw my shoulders forward and made my heart spike. I cursed under my breath, the word sounding hollow in the closed cockpit of the car. I eased the vehicle onto the shoulder, tires crunching on gravel, headlamp beams slicing through the dim. The engine sputtered once, twice, then died entirely, leaving me with silence so complete it felt like a physical weight.
I killed the ignition, stared out into the gathering dusk, and exhaled slowly.
Nothing. Not a single light from another car on the road. Just the rustle of trees and the distant caw of a bird settling down for night.
I tried the key again. Nothing.
No turn. No rumble. Just that soft click that meant refusal.
“Of course,” I muttered, then opened the door and stepped out onto cold pavement. My feet felt oddly heavy, like lead weights strapped to my ankles.
I popped the hood and leaned in, lungs filling with the smell of coolant and rubber and something that reminded me uncomfortably of burnt electrical wiring. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals, the kind that should have meant heat dissipating harmlessly, but in that moment just added to the sense of disintegration.
My eyes tracked over hoses and wires and metal components I didn’t understand. I took a shaky breath, trying to think through logic instead of instinct. Engines broke down all the time. Cars got old. Things wore out. It wasn’t a conspiracy. It wasn’t a sign. It was just bad luck.
But my body kept scanning for exits, scanning for movement, scanning for anything that didn’t belong. My hands tightened around the hood’s edge until my knuckles whitened.
I glanced down at my phone.
No signal.
No bars.
Just that little empty icon blinking back at me like a reminder that I was alone.
A sudden headlight glow flared behind me in the rearview mirror, too intentional, too precise to be the last few strands of daylight fading into darkness. The light was bright and steady, not flickering like a distant vehicle passing by. It sat there for a heartbeat, and my pulse thudded in response.
Another moment, and the car behind me slowed, gliding to a stop on the opposite shoulder. I could hear the soft hiss of tires settling on gravel.
My body froze.
I remained leaning under the hood, hands still gripping cold metal, but every instinct in me slashed upright and warned of danger.
Then the driver’s door opened, the sound crisp and measured, and a figure stepped out.
Walter Stone.
His suit jacket was still crisp, even in that half‑light under a sky that was dying between day and night. Movements slow, unhurried. No rush. No panic. No hint of anything chaotic. Just precise, composed steps toward the front of my car.
His voice came before he reached me.
“Engine trouble?”
Words completely ordinary. Polite. But in that moment, they felt wrong on my tongue.
I straightened slightly, shutting the hood with a soft click. I faced him, and a chill settled in my chest.
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse was a rapid drummer against my ribs. “It just… died.”
He nodded as though the world made perfect sense to him in that explanation, like engines running out of gas was not strange, like cars never gave warning signs before dying mid‑trip.
“Need a lift?” he asked, his tone calm, polite. No edge, no hesitation, no pressure.
I took a step back — not dramatic, just enough to create distance between his composed self and my fraying nerves.
“That’s kind,” I said, “but I’m fine. I just have to wait for someone.”
“Out here?” he asked, brow lifting just slightly, like the scenario was too improbable to believe.
“Yeah,” I lied without thinking. It slipped out before I could rein in my instinct. “Just waiting on someone.”
His expression did not change. No empathy, no concern, no condescension. Just stillness.
That was what made it worse.
He nodded as if amused by my answer — not mocking, not cruel, just entertained by my reasoning.
There was a long silence.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t push.
He just leaned against his car, one leg crossed over the other, his gaze drifting toward the trees like he was waiting for something that was always meant to be there.
I tried the ignition again.
Nothing.
I closed my eyes briefly, accepting that I was still stuck, still alone, still in the middle of nowhere without signal and without help.
The dusk deepened around me. The sky above shifted from purple to a darker blue, and shadows drew longer across the cracked pavement.
Walter stepped a few feet closer — not too close, just within view.
“My offer still stands,” he said, voice soft, calm.
I did not look at him.
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until I felt the tiny ridges of grip press into my palms.
This was wrong, I thought.
Logic told me cars broke down all the time. Rationality told me help was help. Nature of human courtesy told me people stopped for strangers.
But instinct — that deeper, older part of me that had screamed at Walter Woodstone when I met him in his office, that had made my pulse jump in places logic could not explain — that part of me did not trust him.
My instincts screamed.
But I was tired.
And alone.
And the sky was losing light.
So I exhaled slowly.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a long, weary release of breath that made my shoulders drop a fraction.
I stepped away from the driver’s seat and walked toward his vehicle — a motion that felt heavy and reluctant, like something I was choosing because all other options were closing.
He opened the passenger door before I reached it.
I exhaled again and slid inside without looking at him.
The door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.
He didn’t speak.
He just started the engine.
The hum was immediate. Smooth. Controlled. Like it belonged in a place it had rehearsed a thousand times.
“Buckle up,” he said softly, not looking at me.
The seatbelt clicked into place against my shoulder, and I exhaled once more — slower this time, steadier — but the tension in my jaw and the uneasy flutter at the base of my spine did not leave.
We drove.
At first, there was just the quiet. The hum of the engine. The rhythmic bouncing of the car over the uneven shoulder of the road.
Then the soft glow of headlights stretching across fields that were already slipping into darkness.
I stared out the window, jaw tight, eyes tracing the shapes of trees and horizon and shadows that refused to settle.
The car moved forward, but my mind was already drifting backward, to the reception area, to the feel of his eyes in that office, to the way something deep inside me had whispered wrong even when nothing tangible screamed danger.
I swallowed, jaw muscles working like wires grinding together.
He had not spoken again.
But I could feel the silence between us like a third passenger — close, heavy, and watching.
Outside, the dusk eased into night.
Inside, unease settled deep into my bones.
And I kept staring out the window, jaw tight, pulse ticking up just beneath awareness, willing myself to find a reason, any reason, to explain why this felt terrifying.
But nothing in logic made the feeling go away.
It only grew stronger.