Chapter 17 Harper
HARPER
The police presence outside the building changes the way everything feels.
I can see them down on the street through the floor-to-ceiling windows, unmarked cars parked at careful angles along the curb, officers posted in places that look casual until you know what you’re looking for.
It isn’t dramatic—no lights, no sirens—but it’s constant.
A quiet, watchful net drawn tight around Aiden’s building.
Marcus Chen is officially a manhunt now.
Officers keep coming up to check on us. The word dangerous has been used more than once, along with unpredictable, escalating, and armed with intent.
Hearing it out loud makes my stomach turn in slow, nauseating circles.
This is no longer about a former employee with a grudge.
This is about someone the police believe could hurt people if they don’t find him quickly.
People like me. People like my son. People like Aiden.
All because of me.
I know he says it’s unlikely Marcus will light this building up. He wants to see me suffer. But that doesn’t make me feel better when I keep thinking I smell smoke.
I sit at Aiden’s kitchen island with a detective across from me, a statement recorder blinking red between us.
Aiden stands nearby, close enough that I feel him without looking.
Not hovering but not leaving either. He’s made himself a solid presence, a quiet line I can lean against if I start to tilt. I need that more than I realized.
The detective asks me to start from the beginning.
I tell them about hiring Marcus, about how good he seemed at first—charming, hardworking, eager to pick up shifts.
Then there were register discrepancies, the way my stomach dropped when I finally checked the camera footage.
Palming others’ tips. Swiping bottles of the expensive stuff and selling it to the restaurants around us.
That really hurt—another restauranteur came to me about it. Said Marcus had tried to sell him a bottle of vintage Dom for twice what it was worth, and that didn’t sit right with him. When he asked him where he got it, he ran.
I had saved that bottle for my bar’s one year anniversary, for the staff to share, and they all knew about it.
So, I confronted him. About that, about the money, about the tips, all of it. And that was when I saw the monster behind the eyes.
“What did he say?” the detective asks.
“That I was ruining his life,” I answer. “That people like me get what’s coming to them.” I hear myself say it and the guilt flares sharper than it has all day.
They nod, scribbling notes. Then they tell me things I didn’t know.
Marcus has a history of violence. Anger issues documented in two previous workplaces.
He threw a wine bottle at his previous boss’s head.
He’d been fired twice for theft and threats.
A restraining order was filed by an ex-girlfriend who claimed he became volatile when he felt wronged.
He was violent with her when he learned of the order.
I ruined his life, my brain insists. If I had let it go.
If I hadn’t fired him. If I hadn’t confronted him.
If I had been more understanding, more patient, more forgiving—“This is my fault,” I say out loud before I can stop myself.
“I should have… handled it quietly. I didn’t have to push him.
I should have done things differently. If I had—”
Aiden’s head snaps toward me. “No. He stole from you, from his coworkers. He deserved to be fired or worse.”
“Maybe no one has given him a chance, or maybe—”
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” Aiden continues. “You protected your business and your employees. His reaction is not your responsibility.”
I want to believe him. But the pattern feels too familiar.
My marriage failed because of me. My bar is gone because of me. Now there are police outside the building because of me. I look down at my hands and see every choice I’ve made laid out like evidence, each one pointing to the same conclusion.
Everyone I touch gets hurt.
And somewhere behind a closed bedroom door, my five-year-old son is listening to unfamiliar voices and sensing danger he doesn’t understand.
Even if he’s asleep right now, his kid brain is absorbing too much.
He always has. His brain never shuts off.
It’s how he knew something was wrong between me and his father.
We thought he was unconscious in the backseat when we both finally cracked.
He was snoring. We were driving home from a movie—we had thought it was a family film about a dog.
That’s what all the commercials made it look like.
Turns out, the dog was the husband’s last ditch effort to save the marriage.
At first, we were talking about the film. But then, we both realized we were talking about us. It wasn’t long before we knew what we had to do.
When we got home, Mason asked questions about the conversation, details that were only unleashed when he was asleep. So, I know that right now, he’s hearing us, even if only in his subconscious. And I hate that for him.
I hate all of this. I hate that I’m planning escape routes that will put space between me and the people I care about. Leaving is safer for them than staying. They deserve that safety.
The detective finishes the formal questions and clicks off the recorder, but the conversation doesn’t really stop.
He tells me I couldn’t have known how far Marcus would go, that people make threats all the time, and most never act on them.
He explains that his prior history doesn’t make my decisions reckless in hindsight, unfortunate in outcome.
“… you did what any responsible business owner would have done.”
I nod at the right moments. I say thank you. I even manage a weak smile when he tells me I should try to get some rest.
But I know the ugly truth no one will say out loud. As soon as they step away to speak quietly with another officer near the door, the guilt rushes back in, heavier and more insistent than before. Knowing Marcus has done this before doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel worse.
It means I was the latest in a line of people who underestimated him, and this time the consequences are catastrophic, and I should have run a background check on him.
I can picture the moment I fired him, the way I squared my shoulders and told myself I was being professional, that enforcing boundaries was part of the job. It sucked, even though I was pissed at him. Firing people is a part of being in charge, but it never feels right.
I remember how small and furious he looked standing in front of me. How he boiled with rage just beneath the surface. I remember thinking, fleetingly, that maybe I should have handled it differently.
If I had let the stealing go. If I had issued a warning. If I had looked the other way.
Aiden steps in front of me, forcing me to look at him, his expression steady and unyielding. “Stop,” he says. Not unkindly, but with a firmness that doesn’t allow argument. “He stole from you. Repeatedly. You did the right thing.”
I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. “And now he’s burned everything down. If I hadn’t—”
“If you hadn’t held him accountable,” Aiden cuts in, “he would have kept doing it to you or to someone else. You didn’t do this. He did.”
I want to push back. I want to argue. Instead, I feel the weight of every other failure in my life pile on top of this one. I don’t have the energy to keep going round and round with him about this.
I know what I did. I know what I need to do.
“I’m poison, Aiden,” I say quietly. The word slips out before I can filter it. “Everyone around me gets hurt.”
Aiden’s face softens in a way that makes my chest ache. “That’s not true, Harper.”
“But look at the evidence,” I say, gesturing helplessly around the penthouse. “My ex-husband. My burnt business. Now you and Mason are in the crosshairs of a madman because of me.”
He doesn’t argue. He knows it, too.
I feel myself retreating emotionally, instinctively pulling back from him, from the room, from the fragile sense of safety we’ve been clinging to, thanks to the officers.
“I’m going to leave. I’ll get a hotel. Put distance between you and this mess.
Marcus… he tracked me here. He’ll track me there.
It’ll keep you and Mason safe. It’s the only way—”
Aiden’s eyes flash. “No.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with this because of me. Mason shouldn’t have to—”
“I love you and that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say. You’re not leaving. Not now. And if I have my say, not ever.”
I stare at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. “Why?”
“Because we’re in this together,” he replies without hesitation. “I’m not leaving, and neither are you. You get me?” The certainty in his tone rattles me more than anger would have. It’s easier to argue against doubt than conviction.
“Why do you even want this?” I ask, my voice breaking. “I’m a mess, Aiden. I’m scared all the time. I make bad choices, and then everything falls apart.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “For years, I convinced myself I was protecting people by keeping them at arm’s length. I thought distance was safety. It wasn’t. It was fear.”
He holds my gaze, not letting me look away as he chucks my chin up with a curved forefinger. “I know you’re scared right now. But you are not poison. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m not letting you push me away.”
I don’t know why, but I can’t take this right now. Can’t let it settle in me. If I do that, I might believe he means it.
I try to lighten my tone. “If poison is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, then you’ve been through some bad shit—”