Chapter 36 Ivy
IVY
Sebastian leaves for work like it’s any other morning—coffee in one hand, keys in the other. He murmurs a quiet “be good” to Mr. Pickles as if the cat is a toddler with a criminal record.
Then he pulls me close, the keys in his hand pressing against my lower back, his lips meeting mine—and lingering.
“Have a good day,” I whisper.
He grins and winks. “That kiss already made it great.”
He exits to the garage. I stand by the door, watching his car disappear past the hedge line.
The quiet settles in behind him.
Mr. Pickles hops onto the back of the couch and loafs like a judgmental gargoyle, green eyes tracking me as I wander through Sebastian’s living room.
Drew went into the city to meet with his divorce attorney, so it’s just Mr. Pickles and me in this big, renovated house.
The house feels different with them gone. It’s too quiet.
I try to distract myself with normal things. I rinse the coffee pot, then wipe down the counter even though it’s already clean. I straighten a throw pillow, then straighten.
I glance toward the sliding glass doors. For a second, I could swear the leaves on the fake tree moved.
I blink, but they’re perfectly still.
I shake my head and force myself not to stare. That’s what paranoia wants—attention.
Mr. Pickles yawns like he disagrees.
I open the fridge just to have something to do, pretending to consider leftovers like I’m not a woman who thinks about Sebastian’s breathing patterns for sport.
The sound of a car accelerating outside makes me jump.
I look out the window, annoyed with myself for overreacting. It’s just the mail truck. The world continues to exist beyond this house, and the warm heat from the fireplace.
Mr. Pickles’ ears flick toward the front door.
“Don’t start,” I tell him softly, because I’m not about to take threat assessment advice from a cat with an attitude.
I pad down the hall and open the front door. The air outside is crisp, damp, and quiet in a way that makes every sound feel louder than it should. The kind of quiet that makes you pay attention.
I pull my sweater tighter as I step outside and head toward the mailbox. I flip open the lid and riffle through it. Advertisements, a flyer for an upcoming spring festival, and something official addressed to Sebastian.
And then I notice the shrubs. The needles move like something brushed past them.
I pause with the mail tucked under my arm and squint at them.
It’s just the wind. That’s all. Just the breeze moving through them.
Except… the flags on the porch down the street aren’t moving. The small wind chime hanging from Mrs. Kline’s porch is still. The bare branches of the trees lining Old Mill Row aren’t trembling.
I look down at my long hair. Not even a strand lifts.
My stomach tightens.
Okay. This is weird.
Mr. Pickles comes up to me and bumps his head against my ankle.
I glance down. “What?”
He stares at the shrubs, then he looks up at me. He flicks his tail once before heading up the driveway and back inside like he’s decided this is above his pay grade.
Traitor.
I swallow and start up the driveway, the mail still clutched under my arm like it might become a weapon. It stretches out ahead of me, damp from last night’s rain. The hedge line bordering Sebastian’s property feels like a neatly trimmed boundary between normal and… whatever we are now.
Halfway to the house, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, like I’m being watched. That familiar, unpleasant certainty that someone else is in the space with you, even when you can’t prove it.
I look around, trying to act casual.
But I don’t see anyone.
I force myself to keep walking at the same pace.
Then I hear footsteps behind me. Too slow to be a squirrel. Too heavy to be the wind.
My spine goes rigid.
I stop.
So does the sound.
I let a full second pass.
Then another.
Then I slowly turn like I’m casually checking the street, and not because my pulse is trying to climb out of my throat.
The sidewalk is empty.
Old Mill Row is still sleepy and quiet, the curtains drawn, cars parked in driveways. The world is pretending it’s safe because it looks that way.
I scan left. Then right. Then over to the hedge line.
It’s still.
I swallow, forcing air into my lungs.
It’s fine.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe it was a squirrel running along the hedges, and I mistook the sound for human. Maybe—
Footsteps come again, closer this time.
My breath catches.
I don’t turn immediately.
Instead, I do what I’ve always done when my instincts start screaming—I listen and count for three beats.
But all I hear is silence.
My shoulders begin to relax... until I hear another step.
I freeze, then slowly turn around.
Nothing.
A cold, nagging suspicion settles in my gut.
Someone wants me to know they’re here.
My fingers tighten around the mail.
I take one slow step toward the house.
But then, the unmistakable snap of a twig.
My heart bangs hard in my chest.
I keep walking up the last stretch of the driveway, my shoes scuffing softly against the damp blacktop.
The air feels heavier, like it’s pressing in on me.
I don’t look back again until I reach the front door.
My hand closes around the knob.
I pause.
Then I turn—just enough—to glance over my shoulder one last time.
Only the hedge line and the quiet street behind me.
I step inside, shutting and locking the door behind me.
Mr. Pickles is sitting in the hallway like he’s been waiting for me, his eyes bright and unblinking.
I stare at him, and he stares back.
“Don’t judge me,” I whisper.
He blinks once, slow and unimpressed, then stands and pads away.
I lean my forehead against the door, forcing my breathing to slow.
My pulse is still racing, but my mind is sharp.
That wasn’t my imagination.
It wasn’t the wind. And it wasn’t an accident.
Someone is out there.
And they know I’m here.
I straighten, smoothing my features into something calm before I move deeper into the house.
I won’t call Sebastian yet. Not until I have something concrete. Not until I know what game this is.
But as I walk toward the living room, I glance at the balcony.
The fake tree’s leaves shift slightly, as if something brushed against them.
And I realize, with a cold certainty that settles into my bones—whatever just shifted outside didn’t want to be seen.
It wanted to be felt.