Jiya
Two months passed.
It was now the second week in February.
Standing by the family room window, I watched the children playing on the street. Snowbanks lined the edges of the road, and the winter air carried that crisp, biting chill.
Absentmindedly, I twisted my wedding and engagement rings around my fingers. The motion had become a habit—an unconscious ritual tied to memory. My mind drifted back to the moment Cole had proposed to me the previous year on my birthday, and the memory warmed my heart.
Then something outside caught my attention.
My breath stilled.
The black Ford.
It appeared again, turning slowly onto the cul-de-sac like a shadow returning to claim unfinished business. The vehicle moved cautiously, slowing down as it passed in front of my house before continuing along the curve of the street.
A pang of fear sank through me.
It had disappeared after the event at the gallery, and now it had reappeared… mysteriously.
Reaching for a pen and paper on the side table, I quickly noted down the licence plate number. Without wasting another second, I picked up my phone and dialled Alex, my trusted friend in the RCMP.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, to be honest, Jiya,” he said after running the search. “Registered to a Dominic Peters, aged forty-five. A family man with two children. Works at a bank.” He paused briefly before adding, half joking, half serious, “Maybe he’s having an affair on that side of town.”
I forced a polite chuckle, though the explanation did little to calm the worry coiling inside me.
“Thanks, Alex,” I said, ending the call.
But I refused to accept that answer.
Jeremy, my foster father, was no longer a threat.
So who could be following me now?
And why?
An empty, hollow sensation stirred in the pit of my stomach as I held my breath.
Sitting down at the dining table, I opened my laptop and began searching for Dominic Peters online. I scrolled through photographs on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, studying every image, hoping to find something—anything—that would explain his presence near my home.
Nothing stood out.
Still, caution held me back from letting my guard down.
I made sure the doors were always locked.
The security alarm was always set. And my daily routine never changed.
I continued my exercises and workouts without fail.
Physical strength had become more than just a habit—it was my armour, my shield against fear.
I had never stopped training, not even after Emma’s birth.
Every push-up, every run, every stretch reminded me that I was capable of protecting the people who mattered most. It not only strengthened my body, but it also strengthened my mind.
Running after the children, lifting them, carrying groceries, managing the restaurant and the cafés—all of it kept me strong, alert, and ready.
Ready for anything.
Jeremy might be gone, but this mysterious car stirred a different kind of trepidation.
With two children depending on me, I couldn’t take risks. I had left my past behind, yet it felt as though the past was reaching out again, knocking on the door I had worked so hard to close.
Whenever I stepped into my car, I found myself scanning the surroundings automatically, my eyes moving from mirror to mirror, searching for movement, for danger.
Mace stayed in my handbag at all times. The training sessions Tyrone had put me through came rushing back—how to defend myself, how to react quickly, how to survive.
After dinner one evening, while working on my laptop at the dining table, I glanced toward the living room where the children sat watching television.
“Lucas, brush your teeth and go to bed, please,” I called out. “Take your sister with you.”
“The movie is almost done, Mama. Just a few more minutes,” he pleaded.
I sighed softly, weighing discipline against exhaustion.
“Fine,” I replied. Then I raised my voice slightly. “Geeta?”
“Yes, Didi,” she answered from the kitchen.
“Walk the dogs around in the backyard, then lock the doors and turn on the alarm.”
“Okay, Didi.”
I trusted Geeta completely. She had been with us long enough to understand my concerns without needing explanations. I had told her about the black car, and she took the situation seriously, staying alert whenever she was alone with the children.
Pepper spray remained in her purse at all times, and I had taught her a few basic self-defence moves, just in case.
Ten minutes later, I pushed my chair back and stood up.
Lucas immediately sensed trouble. Running around the couch, he tried to escape, laughing loudly as Emma followed behind him, her tiny feet pounding against the floor.
Oreo and Milo sprang up at once, barking excitedly and racing after them, their nails clicking against the hardwood as they joined the chase, their bodies bouncing as if this sudden burst of energy were the best game of the day.
I chased after the children, unable to hide my smile. Catching Lucas, I scooped him into my arms and began tickling him relentlessly.
“You know the rules,” I said.
He squirmed and tried to shield himself, his laughter filling the room. “Okay, okay!” he gasped. “I’m going!”
Emma wrapped her small arms around my leg, looking up at me with wide, pleading eyes. “Mama, no trouble Lucas.”
Her innocent defence of her brother melted my heart.
Carrying Emma up the stairs, I took her into her room and changed her into her pyjamas, smoothing her hair gently as she yawned. Then I walked into Lucas’s room with her still in my arms and sat down on his bed.
Pulling the familiar book from the nightstand, I opened it and began reading aloud from The Wonderful Things You Will Be by Emily Winfield Martin.
Within minutes, both children drifted off to sleep.
I leaned forward and kissed Lucas gently on the forehead before switching on the night light beside his bed. Then I lifted Emma carefully and carried her into her room, placing her beneath the covers.
Kissing her cheek, I whispered, “Goodnight, my angel. Sleep well.”
Standing there for a moment, I watched her rest, my heart swelling with love and fierce protectiveness.
My children were my world.
My greatest responsibility.
And my greatest strength.
Yet beneath that love, I was aware of the danger that circled just beyond my reach.
The following month, in March, I noticed the black car following me on several occasions, keeping its distance. By then, I no longer believed the driver was simply having an affair with one of my neighbours. I had never seen anyone enter or exit the vehicle. It remained an anonymous presence.
A darker possibility began to form in my mind.
Could it be Caleb’s mother?
Caleb didn’t know about Emma.
But his mother did.
Was she trying to take Emma away from me?
Eleanor Evans had influence, power, and connections strong enough to make problems disappear—or appear—without leaving a trace.
I had seen firsthand what she was capable of.
She had ensured that no one discovered the truth about the kidnapping of her grandchildren.
A woman who could orchestrate something like that would have no hesitation pulling another stunt if it suited her interests.
And that sent a chill through me.
Because if she truly was behind this… then the danger was far greater than I had imagined.
One afternoon, deciding to take matters into my own hands, I dressed in jeans and running shoes, tension pulsing beneath my skin. I walked to the closet and pulled out the box I had hidden deep inside, tucked behind old sweaters and winter blankets—out of sight, yet never out of mind.
The box carried memories I would rather forget—memories of fear, survival, and the lessons I had been forced to learn the hard way.
Slowly, I opened it.
Reaching inside, I took out the gun and checked the magazine with practiced precision before slipping it into the back waistband of my jeans beneath my sweater.
The metal felt cold and heavy against my skin.
I had bought it as protection against Jeremy, yet I had never needed to use it.
Even so, keeping it close had always given me a sense of control.
“I’m going to the mall,” I called out to Geeta. “Do you need anything?”
“No, Didi. Oh… actually, just milk and bread from the grocery store, please.”
“Alright,” I replied.
Locking the door behind me, I walked toward the car and slid into the driver’s seat. My fingers gripped the steering wheel as I started the engine, a bead of sweat forming along my hairline despite the cool afternoon air.
As soon as I drove out of the neighbourhood, I saw the black car again.
My pulse quickened.
He’s following me again.
I clenched my jaw and kept driving, my eyes flicking toward the rear-view mirror every few seconds. When I reached the mall, I turned sharply into the parking garage and drove all the way to the highest level, where only a handful of cars were scattered around.
Moments later, the black car followed me up and parked several spots away.
The sight confirmed what my instincts had been whispering all along.
This wasn’t a coincidence.
This was deliberate.
I sat motionless for a few seconds, forcing myself to breathe through the adrenaline surging through my veins.
I needed answers. I needed to know who he was and what he wanted.
Confronting him outside my house would have been reckless. The children were there. There were too many risks… too many unknowns.
Here, in a public place surrounded by people and security cameras, I at least had some control over the situation.
I had hoped I would never have to deal with something like this again. I wished Cole were beside me now—his presence solid and reassuring, his hand resting protectively against my back. He had always made me feel safe, as though nothing in the world could touch me while he was near.
But he wasn’t here.
And I had learned long ago that survival sometimes meant standing alone.
Trouble always seemed to find its way back into my life.