Chapter 3
LUELLA
I swing the door shut behind me with a little more force than necessary, letting it break the silence. It’s too quiet here sometimes, as if this whole sleepy town is under some kind of mute button. Which, granted, was the entire point of moving to Meadowgrove. But still, the silence bugs me.
So, I let my keys clatter onto the counter, and then I kick off my shoes, groaning as the ache in my feet throbs onto the cold floor. I’m learning to enjoy these little moments, the basic things—like going to work and not plotting a murder. Having my own space. That’s the thing I like best about being here, space and peace.
Or so I keep telling myself.
I pour a glass of water and lean back against the counter, staring into my quiet kitchen, all pristine white cabinets and bare counters, as if my life here is some kind of blank slate. But the empty spaces don’t fool me. No matter how many places I try to leave behind, there’s always something I can’t quite shake.
It's him.
I’ve got to let him go. I’ve got to make this work.
But tonight, it’s like an itch I can’t ignore. A faint prickle at the back of my neck, the sense that I’m not as alone as I think. It’s ridiculous, really. I left Colton behind—a year of living quietly, no threats, no control, no man telling me who I am or what I should be afraid of.
But now he’s here, lurking in the shadows.
And why does that excite me?
I shake my head, forcing myself to brush it off. Paranoia —that’s all it is. I can’t help that the guy left an impression, like a scar. Even if I can’t see him, I feel him.
You don’t need him, Luella. You’re free now.
I down the water in one gulp, setting the glass down with a satisfying thunk, and head to the bedroom, tossing my clothes onto a chair in a half-hearted attempt at being tidy. I roll my shoulders, finally letting the tension slip away. When I crawl into bed, the sheets are cool against my skin, the silence settling in like a blanket, comforting and familiar.
And yet…
Just as I close my eyes, that feeling prickles at the edge of my awareness again. It’s probably just the usual tricks my mind likes to play when I’m trying too hard to relax. I sit up, glancing around, my eyes searching the dark corners of the room, looking for nothing and everything all at once.
Nothing. There’s nothing there. Just me and my overactive brain, still wired to expect the worst.
“There’s something really wrong with you,” I tell myself, irritated that I can’t seem to relax even now.
I flop back down with a sigh, the memory of Colton’s eyes—dark, intense, always watching—floating up in my mind. God, I swear he’s in here with me, even when he isn’t. Like some part of him got lodged under my skin, refusing to leave, no matter how many towns I run to.
It’s probably nothing. But as I drift off to sleep, I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, he’s closer than I want to believe.
And that sends a thrill through me.
Jesus, Luella. The man who raped you and kept you captive sends a thrill through you?
I groan before I tumble into a spiral of dreamless sleep, where dark eyes haunt me and a hand tightens around my throat.
I wake a few hours later, groggy and desperately thirsty. I know my way around the apartment well enough now to navigate it in the dark. My eyes still half closed, I make my way to the kitchen, stifling a yawn as I fill a glass tumbler with water. The hum of the refrigerator plays like a lullaby in the background, and the chill of the apartment makes me yearn for the warmth of my bed. As I gulp down the cool liquid, a sudden sound makes me freeze. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to make every hair on my body stand on end. A creak, like a floorboard shifting under weight.
My heart hammers against my ribs, and I slowly turn, my hand tightening around the glass. I strain my ears, listening intently, my breath caught in my throat.
Silence.
Just my imagination, I tell myself, trying to calm my racing pulse. It’s the wind, a settling house, anything but what my gut is screaming at me. But the prickle on my skin, the hair on my arms, they tell a different story. They remember his touch.
I take a tentative step back, my eyes scanning the room, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of an intruder. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of my heart.
Nothing.
“Get a fucking grip,” I mutter, gulping down the water before placing it on the kitchen counter. But then my gaze moves to the tiny table in my living room, highlighted by the moonlight spilling through the window.
There’s something on it that shouldn’t be there. I move closer, my heart in my mouth as I realize what it is. It’s the framed photograph of my mother, sister, and me, the only thing salvaged from my broken past. Something I didn’t think I’d ever be able to display without my heart breaking into a million pieces. But I look at it every day now, knowing I killed the monsters responsible for stealing their lives, and feel a sense of pride.
I can’t bring them back to life, but I gave them their vengeance.
However, it’s not the photograph that I’m looking at—it’s the photos scattered across the table in front of it.
Photographs of me , walking through Meadowgrove.
My blood runs cold. Someone has been watching me. Someone has been following me. My hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp. The photos are candid shots, taken from a distance, capturing moments of my everyday life: walking to work, buying groceries, sitting on a park bench. Each photo is a tiny window into my carefully constructed world of anonymity, a world that is now shattered. But as I sift through them, I see more images of me looking over my shoulder, confirming each and every time I thought someone was watching me—they were.
Panic claws at my throat, choking me. I snatch up a handful of photos, my fingers trembling. They’re printed on high-quality paper, the images sharp and detailed. This isn’t the work of some amateur stalker. This is calculated. Precise. Professional.
Colton.
The name explodes in my mind, a lightning strike of fear and…something else. A dark, twisted thrill that makes my stomach churn. It’s him. It has to be. He’s found me. He’s been watching me. He’s here.
First the rose, now this?
A low laugh escapes my lips, a mixture of hysteria and a strange, unsettling excitement. He’s playing games, just like he always did. Testing me. Taunting me. Reminding me that I can never truly escape him.
I drop the photos onto the table, my gaze fixed on the open window. The curtains sway slightly in the breeze, a silent invitation to the darkness outside. He’s out there. I can feel it. Watching me. Waiting.
How did he get inside? The door is locked, and I have the only key, and unless he’s turned into a ninja, I doubt he can climb walls to my apartment window.
Still, I slam the window shut, glaring at the road below.
The bastard.
Not content with watching and following me, letting me bask in ignorance—oh no, he wanted me to know he was here.
Suddenly, the silence of my apartment feels oppressive, suffocating. I need air. I need to escape the feeling of being trapped, boxed in. I stumble back to the bedroom, grabbing a jacket and slipping it on. I have to get out of here.
My hand fumbles with the lock on the front door, the metal cold against my trembling fingers. I glance through the peephole, my heart pounding in my chest. The hallway is empty. But I know he’s out there. Somewhere.
I take a deep breath, brace myself, and yank open the door. I step into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind me. As I turn to face the empty corridor, my eyes are drawn to a single black rose lying on the floor, just outside my door. Another message. Another taunt. Another reminder that he’s always one step ahead.