Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Imogene
Packing up my townhouse wasn’t as bittersweet as I’d expected.
After all, it never truly felt like home.
When I moved to California earlier this year, I thought it would be the fresh start I needed. That it would somehow help me move on and forget the past.
Little did I know my past would soon find me.
Regardless, I never decluttered my life. Never let go of things.
That was what I was doing, especially now that Gideon and I were about to embark on the next chapter of our lives. Instead of simply stuffing all my belongings into boxes and taking them with me, I was finally going through everything, getting rid of anything I’d been holding on to for far too long.
It felt freeing to finally do this. To purge my life.
And with each item I discarded, it lightened the weight I’d been carrying.
This move wasn’t just about consolidating space. It was about making room for something new.
When I couldn’t fit anything else in the trash bag, I tied it up and pulled myself to my feet. My muscles were sore from all the lifting I’d been doing, but I pushed ahead.
Since I decided not to renew my lease on a townhouse I no longer lived in, I needed to be out by the end of the weekend so the property management company could prepare it for the new tenant.
Which was why I’d been coming here every day after work.
Gideon had been coming here to help after work, too.
Apparently, his cover story that he was a venture capitalist was actually true, much to my surprise. With all the money he now had after Henry gave him his share of the profits in his cyber security firm, Gideon wanted to do something with that money. It was his way of paying it forward, considering he wouldn’t have found any success if an angel investor hadn’t taken a risk on his concept for a gaming platform.
It was because of that success he was able to provide the start-up funds for Henry’s firm.
Lifting the giant trash bag off the floor, I carried it onto the back deck and toward the trash bins tucked along the side of the detached garage. I heaved it on top of the other bags, the lid no longer able to fully close.
I brushed some of the dust off my shirt and yoga pants and was about to turn when a sound coming from the garage caught my attention, faint but noticeable.
Was someone in there? Or was I just letting my mind play tricks on me because of the recent break-in?
That had to be it. This townhouse was completely safe and secure. If anyone broke in while I wasn’t here, I’d know.
More importantly, Gideon would know.
Reminding myself of that, I shook off my unease and started back toward the house.
Then I heard it again.
But this time, it was more than just a light shuffling sound. It was more deliberate. More rhythmic. Almost like footsteps against the cement floor of the garage.
I turned toward the building, every nerve in my body on edge. A million scenarios raced through my mind. Maybe it was a raccoon. Or a squirrel.
But it sounded too weighty to be an animal.
My heart hammering in my chest, I walked toward the door and placed my hand on the knob. With a steady inhale, I turned it, pushing the door open, unsure what I’d find.
But it was empty.
I stepped farther inside, my sneakers scuffing against the smooth floor, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. The garage smelled faintly of motor oil and damp concrete, the earthy scent mixing with a trace of mildew. The dim light filtering through the narrow windows cast uneven shadows across the floor, making the corners look darker and deeper than they were.
My eyes scanned the space, darting from one object to the next. The shelves lining the walls were cluttered but orderly — tools in neat rows, a box of Christmas decorations shoved to one side, a stack of old paint cans gathering dust that were here when I moved in.
I ran my hand along the workbench as I passed, the rough wood scraping against my skin. A few loose screws and nails clinked under my touch, but otherwise, everything seemed untouched. The only movement came from the faint swing of a cobweb dangling in the far corner.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
I crouched to look beneath the workbench, half-expecting to find a squirrel or maybe a stray cat that had wandered in. There was nothing except an old tarp and a forgotten paint roller.
As I stood, the air seemed to shift, a faint whisper of coolness brushing against my neck like a draft. I spun around, my pulse pounding in my ears as I searched the space yet again.
The shadows seemed to still, like they were holding their breath, waiting.
But for what?
“Hello?” I managed to say through the dryness in my throat, the taste of stale air lingering on my tongue.
The only response was the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of a lawn mower coming from down the street.
I forced myself to exhale, my breath shaky and shallow. I was being ridiculous. It was just my imagination magnifying every creak and shadow into something sinister.
But then I swore I heard it again — something soft, like the scrape of a shoe against concrete growing closer and closer.
Before I could spin around, a hand grabbed my arm, another clamping over my mouth. Panic surged through me as I struggled against whoever held me. I tried to remember my self-defense training. I knew I needed to calm down enough to think clearly, but that was easier said than done.
It didn’t help that I hadn’t kept up on my training. Plus, I was still regaining my strength after the accident.
I attempted to free myself, but his hold on me was too resolute.
Then I felt a sharp pain in my head, the world around me going fuzzy before everything went dark.