Chapter 102 The Car in the Shadows
The text from Cora arrived at 11:47 PM.
Damian read it twice, then handed me the phone. His face was gray in the dim light of the bedroom, the shadows pooling under his eyes, his jaw tight.
I've seen the car again. Same tinted windows. Same plates. It's parked across from my apartment. I'm scared to leave. I'm scared to stay. Please help me.
I sat up, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Call her.”
He did. Cora answered on the first ring, her voice barely a whisper, trembling.
“I'm here,” she said. “He's just sitting there. Engine off. Lights off. Just watching my window. He's been there for an hour. I peeked through the blinds.”
“Don't go outside,” Damian said, his voice tight, controlled. “Lock your doors. Every lock you have. Deadbolt. Chain. Slide bolt. We're coming.”
“No. Don't. What if he follows you? What if he sees you and knows I told someone? He might hurt you too.”
“Then we'll know who he is. That's worth the risk. You're my daughter. I won't leave you alone. Not tonight. Not ever.”
We drove through the dark, the roads empty, streetlights flashing overhead in rhythmic pulses. Damian's hands were tight on the wheel, his knuckles white. I watched the rearview mirror, half expecting headlights to appear behind us, half hoping they wouldn't.
“What if this is about me?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“What if someone from my past is trying to get to me through her? Someone I hurt. Someone I crossed in business. Someone who's been waiting for years, biding their time.”
I had no answer. The silence between us was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and the weight of old mistakes.
Cora's apartment building was small, set back from the road, surrounded by old oak trees that blocked the moonlight. A dark sedan sat across the street, its windows blacked out, no plates visible front or back. It looked like a shadow given form.
Damian parked a block away, killing the lights and the engine. We watched, barely breathing.
“No movement,” he said after five long minutes.
“Maybe he's asleep. Maybe he's waiting for something.”
“Or waiting for her to make a mistake. To come out for air or to check her mail.”
We sat in silence for ten more minutes, the only sound our breathing and the distant hum of the city. Then the sedan's lights flicked on. It pulled away slowly, not speeding, not hesitating, as if it knew we were there and didn't care.
Damian started the engine. “I'm following it.”
“Be careful. Don't get too close. Don't let him see you.”
The sedan led us through empty streets, past closed shops with dark windows, under flickering streetlights that cast strange shadows on the pavement. It didn't try to lose us. It didn't seem to notice or care.
Then it turned into a long driveway, gravel crunching under its tires. A wrought iron gate opened automatically, as if expecting its return. The sedan disappeared inside.
Damian stopped at the curb. He stared at the sign on the gate, his face pale, his hands frozen on the wheel.
Blackwood Industries. Private Property. No Trespassing.
My blood went cold. “That's your company.”
“It was. I sold it years ago. Before the divorce. Before everything fell apart. I haven't thought about that place in a decade.”
“Who owns it now?”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the gate. “I don't know. I should have kept track. I should have known who bought it.”
We drove back to Cora's. She was waiting at the window, the lights off, a silhouette against the glass, her phone pressed to her ear.
Damian called her. “He's gone. But he went to my old company. The building I used to own.”
A long pause. “Why would someone there be watching me? I've never even been to that building.”
“I don't know. But I'm going to find out. You're staying with us tonight. Pack a bag.”
The next morning, Damian made calls. Old contacts. Former employees. Private investigators. He spent hours on the phone, his voice growing more frustrated with each conversation, each dead end.
The current owner was a shell company, layers of ownership, offshore accounts, impossible to trace.
“Someone doesn't want to be found,” he said, slamming the phone down on the kitchen table.
“Someone who knows you.”
“Or someone who wants to hurt me. Someone who's been waiting. Plotting.”
We told Cora to stay with us indefinitely. She packed a bag and came that afternoon, her eyes red, her hands shaking.
Rose cleared the guest room and put fresh flowers on the nightstand. Lily made tea and brought cookies. Max offered to sleep on the couch near her door, a baseball bat beside him just in case.
Cora looked around the cottage, at the dogwood in bloom outside the window, at the silver stars hanging in our bedroom. “This is where you live now?”
“This is where we're safe,” I said.
“Are we?” She looked at the windows, at the doors.
I didn't answer. The question hung in the air like smoke.
That night, Damian's phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number, the screen glowing in the dark room.
You can't protect her. I know where you live. I know where your grandchildren go to school. I know your routines, your habits, your weaknesses. Back off, or everyone pays. This is your only warning.
Damian showed me. His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
“We go to the police,” I said.
“And say what? Someone sent a mean text? They'll laugh at us. They'll say there's no credible threat.”
“We say we're being stalked. Threatened. That someone followed Cora home from her apartment. That they know where our grandchildren are.”
He stared at the screen, the words burning into his memory. “They'll ask who. We don't have a name. We don't have a face. We don't have anything.”
“Then we get one. We set a trap.”
He looked at me. “What kind of trap?”