Chapter 6
Juliette
There went my fresh new start in Farrow’s End. And I still didn’t even know his name. This is what happened when you ignored problems and hoped they’d just… disappear. I hovered by the bedroom window, watching him help Gramm—Mrs Mercer—into his truck. He wasn’t in uniform today.
I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse, because now he was wearing a skin-tight T-shirt and snug-fitting jeans. Apparently, the man didn’t own clothes that fit him properly.
We were complete opposites.
Jennifer always knew how to dress—expensive fabrics, effortless polish.
My family looked down on my cardigans and sensible skirts. Even my dad looked me over like he couldn’t quite believe I came from him.
And yet, here Mrs Mercer was, trying to set me up with her grandson without knowing we’d already met.
I sighed, shoulders slumping.
That was loyalty.
That was family.
He rounded the truck and stopped. Then he craned his neck and looked right at me. Not just at me—through me. Like a demon from hell. Minus the glowing red eyes. I squealed and ducked.
I’ll be back.
Yeah, good luck, buddy. I thought bravely.
But I didn’t stand up until I heard the engine fire up, and I was sure they’d left.
?? ?? ??
He came back.
This time, I was mentally prepared, unlike our first meeting.
I was distraught then. I had left my family, started a new job, and was trying to meet the moving truck on time.
The reason for him stopping me.
Was it too late for the morning-after pill?
I winced at the thought, then hesitantly placed a hand over my stomach.
His blue eyes flashed in my memory, peering out from beneath that stupid hat—
And my hand dropped away.
It was just one time.
I nibbled on my lip.
A sharp knock at the door made me jump.
I almost shouted go away.
“Ms Morgan, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he said through the door.
I waited.
He waited.
“I’ll be watching.”
His voice dropped lower now, but I still heard the promise in it.
I slinked into my bedroom and peeked through the edge of the curtain.
His stride was steady. Unhurried.
The truck door slammed shut.
I let the curtain fall.
He was leaving—for now.
?? ?? ??
Monday morning came too quickly.
As I packed my lunch and snacks, my stomach fluttered with nerves.
Even while thinking through my lesson plan, I couldn’t shake the feeling.
I’d spent the weekend hidden away, safe in my apartment.
But now… I had to be brave.
I had no choice. He’d left me no choice.
I snapped the clips on my Tupperware shut, staring at my sandwich, grapes, and yoghurt.
As I dropped it into my bag, I started to justify my decision.
But the dread didn’t budge.
No.
I’d spent years not standing up for myself.
Officer Mercer had it coming.
?? ?? ??
It wasn’t until I was halfway to work that I saw him.
Behind me.
In his cruiser.
Following me.
At the red light, I peeked into the rear-view mirror.
He was calm.
Sipping his coffee like it was just another Monday.
The light turned green.
I drove—well within the speed limit.
When I finally pulled into the school car park and he didn’t follow me in, I exhaled—but only a little.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of glancing over my shoulder, checking the windows, and flinching at every unexpected sound.
Paranoia.
It was exhausting.
?? ?? ??
Okay.
I’d rehearsed it all weekend—even on my breaks.
I could do this.
I opened my car door and walked up the steps into the police station.
It was small and surprisingly welcoming, with potted plants dotted around both outside and in.
The lighting was bright, and for a moment, I actually felt… safe.
“Hello,” I said to the deputy at the counter.
He stood, offering a friendly smile.
“Hello—you’re the new teacher.”
Some of the tension in my chest eased.
“Yes, Juliette Morgan,” I said, holding out my hand.
He glanced down before shaking it.
“I’m Carlton. What can I do for you?”
My smile faltered.
“I’d like to make a complaint.”
He dropped my hand and frowned.
“You’d like to report a crime?”
“Kind of. Could I speak to the person in charge of the station? It’s a—um—delicate situation.”
His eyes widened briefly.
“Sure, sure. Take a seat. I’ll see if the sheriff’s free.”
I turned to the waiting area—six seats, three on either side.
I sat, clutching my bag to my chest.
It was a small station.
I couldn’t imagine there being more than a few members of staff.
Each minute stretched painfully, dragging on like an hour.
The clock on the wall ticked louder and louder.
The smaller hand—the one marking the seconds—helped pace my breathing.
In and out.
Slow, deep breaths.
The ticking continued.