Chapter Thirty-Six
Riley
The parade is everything Ironwood Falls promised — a technicolor daydream painted on the spine of an old logging town: fire engines spinning showers of candy, floats bearing grinning homecoming queens in tiaras, a marching band in blue and gold uniforms tight as armor, rainbow streamers trailing from battered pickup trucks, clowns on unicycles weaving through the chaos.
Laughter bounces down the main drag. Kids with superhero faces sprint beneath the bunting, hot dogs in hand.
Parents with cell phones corral the little ones into herds for photo ops.
The air is thick with sugar, popcorn, and genuine joy.
And yet…
I can’t breathe.
Breaker left half an hour ago, but the second his bike disappeared into traffic, something inside me tightened. It comes as a cold hook beneath my ribs, a ravenous whisper in my blood, a shadow that slithers its way around my throat and squeezes.
Something’s wrong.
I try to shake it off.
It’s nothing, I lie to myself, again and again. But I can feel it deep in my soul. I try to shake it off, pressing my nails into my palms until white moons appear, but the dread only grows. My heart is a trapped thing. My breath comes shallow, each inhale a little more ragged than the last.
I glance across the way where the club’s ol’ ladies are gathered.
Claire is chatting with Bianca at a booth selling homemade soaps.
Molly and Alessia stand a few feet away, Molly’s laugh rising above the din as Alessia gestures with a queen’s grace, her sunglasses enormous and glamorous even in Oregon gloom.
Stacy slouches against a bike rack, lemonade in hand, glancing at her phone between sips, the picture of casual boredom.
They all look relaxed, safe, and normal.
But the longer I stand here, the more the world feels like it’s tilting.
I shift closer to the curb. A brightly decorated float goes by — a giant papier maché trout courtesy of the town’s fishing club — and the crowd cheers.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
There it is — that feeling. That sick sixth sense I developed because of him. The feeling that crawled under my skin in parking lots. The feeling that made me check over my shoulder every five seconds.
It’s here. It’s back.
He’s back.
My breath catches, sharp and ragged.
I try to tell myself it’s just nerves. That Breaker leaving stirred up old trauma. That my mind is playing tricks. That I’m safe here, in public. But every instinct in me that has been honed by fear and sharpened by survival screams for me to run.
I glance around for Claire again, to ground myself, but she’s vanished behind a cluster of Girl Scouts shilling cookies.
Molly is mid-argument, her face turned away, her ponytail a red flag in the breeze.
Alessia and Stacy are both blocked by a wall of denim jackets and Little League uniforms. I’m alone in this sea of people, more alone than I was in any cheap motel or midnight parking lot.
My pulse pounds in my ears. The parade noise fades, replaced by a cold, heavy silence only I can hear.
I taste metal in my mouth. The crowd jostles and morphs — every tall man in a ballcap becomes him for a split-second, every pair of sunglasses hides a threat.
I retreat a few steps, then a few more. Someone behind me bumps my shoulder, and I jump as if I’ve been shot.
“Sorry!” a mother says as I whirl on her, with a look on my face that makes her flinch in fear and pull her child closer, as if to shield them from me.
Something inside me breaks, like a thin thread snapping.
I pivot and plunge into the crowd, threading between strollers, elbowing past bodies, moving fast enough that people shout after me.
I’m no longer trying to look normal; I just need distance.
The smells change as I move — from kettle corn to caramel to the burned tang of grill grease — but I barely register any of it. My vision tunnels, my hands shake.
A shout goes up behind me. I ignore it. I don’t look back. I duck beneath a streamer, side-step a teenager in a marching band hat, and nearly trip over a toddler in inflatable butterfly wings.
A gust of wind slaps a tent flap into my face, and I stumble, blinded for a second.
When I peel the nylon away, I’m alone in a makeshift alley behind the vendor stalls, the noise mercifully muted.
My shoulders drop half an inch in relief.
I almost feel stupid. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a panic attack.
But then, from the corner of my eye, I see a shape move in the shadow of a dumpster. My heart stops, then restarts at triple-time. There’s no logic anymore, only motion, only survival.
I run.
My feet pound through wet gravel, the sound so loud I think it must be drawing attention, but when I risk a glance over my shoulder, the alley is empty.
I take a hard left, then another, navigating by pure instinct.
I don’t know where I’m going, only that I need to get there yesterday.
The world narrows to a single goal: lose him.
I break out of the alley and into a quieter side street, lined with empty booths and folding chairs.
A banner reading “Rotary Club Pie-Eating Contest” sags in the rain.
I race past it, lungs burning, legs shaking.
At the end of the street, a delivery truck blocks the view.
I duck behind it, crouch low, press my back to the cold metal.
I force myself to count my breaths: one, two, three. I try to think: What would Breaker do? What would Breaker tell me to do? Stay calm, assess, find cover, don’t make yourself a target. I scan the area — no one in sight, nothing but rattling leaves and the distant echo of celebration.
I believe for a second that I outran it. That it really was just a memory, a phantom limb of fear. That I am alone and safe.
Then I hear it: the crunch of boots on gravel, slow and measured. Not rushed, not angry. Patient. Like he’s savoring each step.
He knows exactly where I am.
I press myself flatter against the truck, try to steady my hands, try to remember every self-defense trick Breaker ever taught me. My mind blanks. All I can do is listen as the footsteps draw closer, closer, until they stop just on the other side of the wheel well.
I squeeze my eyes shut, count to three, then to ten. I tell myself that I’ll be okay, that I made it this far, that I am not a victim anymore. I am not prey.
Ready, I open my eyes — a shadow stands right in front of me.
I turn to run, and something heavy slams into my face.
Hard.
The impact knocks me backward, and I lose my balance, arms flailing. My heart leaps into my throat. Strong hands catch my upper arms just before I go down. My breath stops. A shadow blocks the sunlight above me.
For a frozen, agonizing second, I can’t see the face; the sun is behind the figure, turning their features into a dark silhouette. But I see the outline: a straight, confident posture, something clipped at the hip that glints with menace in the light.
Icy terror detonates in my chest.
My vision blurs. My throat closes. I release a shaky, broken sob.
“Don’t worry, Riley,” the voice says. It is low, controlled, and familiar. I try to pull back, but the grip tightens, keeping me paralyzed. “I’ve got you.”