Chapter 27: Madeline
A sound behind me.
Footsteps.
Slow. Light.
Like someone else just stepped into the street.
My heart stutters. I turn fast.
Nothing.
The alley is empty. The wind rustles something plastic against the stone.
Just that.
Just that.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone anymore.
That something — or someone — is watching.
I take a step back, pulse quickening, eyes scanning the street again. The dim orange glow of a streetlamp flickers above me, casting long shadows over the stone.
I reach for my phone again.
Still no signal.
And that’s when I hear it again.
Another step.
Closer this time.
I freeze.
My breath catches like it’s snagged on a hook. My chest contracts, sharp and hollow. My hands go cold.
No no no no—
Not again.
I spin around — nothing. Just the dark. The wind. The weak flicker of a porch light in the distance.
I try to walk faster.
Steps follow.
Or maybe it’s an echo.
Maybe I’m being stupid.
Maybe it’s just a bird, or the wind, or—
Flash.
His hands on the back of my neck.
That smile.
That voice.
How did I ever mistake it for love?
Flash.
My apartment window, cracked open when I was so sure I’d closed it.
The note left on my windshield, unsigned.
A birthday card when I hadn’t told anyone what day it was.
Flash.
The way he said goodbye.
Like it was a door he could always walk back through.
I stumble against the sidewalk. My legs feel disconnected. My breath is coming too fast now — too shallow. A flicker of nausea rolls in. The cold bites through my jacket but I don’t notice.
I clutch my bag to my chest, like that will keep me safe.
Like anything can.
He’s not here.
He can’t be.
But what if he is?
I didn’t post online.
I changed my number.
I came here.
No one knows. No one.
Except… him.
Maybe.
Always maybe.
Always watching.
I duck down beside a stone wall and press my back to it. My heartbeat is so loud it’s all I can hear. I try to breathe — in through my nose, out through my mouth — but it’s ragged, useless.
Tears sting my eyes. I squeeze them shut.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening.
A sound again.
Not footsteps this time — something softer.
A voice.
“Hello?”
I open my eyes in a panic, scrambling to my feet, stumbling backward, hands raised—
But it’s not him.
Not him.
It’s an old woman.
Short, bundled in a long coat and a knitted scarf. Her face is gentle, lined with age, concern etched into her brow.
She steps closer, cautiously. “Oh, sweetheart. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
My throat is too dry to speak. I nod — or something close to it.
“You alright?” she asks, voice low and kind.
I manage a whisper. “I’m… lost. I live at the SWMRI house.”
She doesn’t blink. Just nods. “That’s up on the ridge, by the bluffs.”
I say nothing.
“You’re not far,” she says, “but the paths twist a bit up here, and they’re near impossible to navigate in the dark. Come on, I’ve got a car. Let’s get you home.”
My feet stay planted.
Trust is a foreign language now.
Kindness even more so.
I don’t know this woman.
And I’m tired of trusting the wrong people.
She sees it.
“I’m Maggie,” she says gently. “I live by the chapel. Been here forty-three years. My granddaughter volunteers at the soap shop when she's bored, sometimes. Blonde girl, bit of an attitude.”
I still hesitate.
She reaches into her coat and pulls out a set of keys. Holds them in both hands where I can see them. “You don’t have to get in. You can sit up front while I call someone for you. I won’t drive anywhere you don’t want to go. You’ve got my word.”
The tears I’ve been holding back sting harder.
I nod.
Just barely.
She doesn’t move closer, doesn’t touch me. Just turns and starts walking toward a car parked under the dim glow of a crooked lamppost.
And I follow.
Because whatever danger waits behind me, whatever memory is clawing its way up my throat — it’s not her.
It’s not now.
I glance once more behind me.
There’s nothing.
The woman’s car smells faintly of peppermint and old upholstery. She’s turned the heater on low, not asking if I want it — just assuming I’m cold. She’s right. I am.
“We’ll be there in two minutes,” the woman says gently. “But you look like you need to breathe.”
I do.
God, I do.
I nod, but can’t speak. My throat’s tight. My chest feels like it's full of smoke — like whatever panic had sparked earlier still hasn’t finished burning itself out.
So I close my eyes.
The car hums softly beneath me. Somewhere far off, I think I hear a gull call, but it feels like it’s underwater. Or I am.
Breathe.
I inhale too fast — sharp, uneven.
Exhale.
Again.
One breath, then two. Three. My fingers unclench from where they’d been gripping my thighs. I didn’t even realize.
I’m still shaking, but the edges of it are starting to fade.
Outside the car, the heater ticks off. I hear the woman’s seatbelt click, the groan of her door swinging open.
Then her voice, hushed.
“She got lost… I don’t know, something happened to her, I think… she was so scared.”
Another voice answers — too low, too far away to make out.
The door closes again. Footsteps crunch across gravel.
I sit in the dark for a moment longer.
Reminding myself:
This isn’t then.
This is now.
This is Northhaven.
He can’t find me here.
I swallow down the taste of fear still caught in my mouth, take one last breath, and open the car door.
The air hits me — colder now, sharper. I stand, brush my hands down my coat, and turn—
And freeze.
This isn’t my house.
This isn’t the SWMRI home. Not the sloped roof or the chipped porch Liam patched with duct tape or the pot of half-dead thyme someone left by the steps.
It’s darker here. The windows are taller. The porch wider. It looks… older. More solid. Set farther back from the road, like it was built before Northhaven even had a map.
And standing in the open doorway—
Is Reid.
Backlit by the warm glow of the house, his figure is sharp-edged and broad in the frame. In a shirt and jogging pants, hair damp and pushed back, a line of water trailing down the side of his neck.
His arms are crossed. His face unreadable.
But he’s staring straight at me.