Chapter 33
Wren
Isee red.
Not blood, but roses.
They sit off to the side of my front door like an offering. Long, thick stems wrapped in cellophane. Placed deliberately out of sight until I’m standing in front of my door.
My stomach plummets, and I fight to keep the chocolate cake from spilling all over the doormat.
Without thought, I bend over, searching for a card. There isn’t one, but I know it’s him. Two dozen long-stemmed red roses. The same ones he’d always bring as an apology.
Because he thought flowers could erase the black and blue that painted my skin.
My heart hammers against my ribs, ears roaring like I’m underwater as I scan the property surrounding the cottage.
Everything looks the same, but it feels wrong now.
The front porch I spent hours scrubbing, decorating with touches that felt like me, flowers I planted for a pop of color to enjoy in the evenings, all feel tainted with his touch.
It’s like the world has shifted a few inches and my body hasn’t caught up.
He knows where I live.
My hands shake at the realization that I’m no longer safe.
I can’t bring myself to breathe. I glance left, then right, then over my shoulder toward the overgrown field—the one leading to my parents' house. It’s deceptively calm.
No movement. No sound but birds chirping and the distant hum of something down the road.
But the calm doesn’t erase the feeling of his eyes on me.
He was always good at hiding himself without being seen.
It’s how he’s gotten away with everything in LA.
No one bats an eye at the handsome man with perfectly tailored suits and polished shoes.
Hair coiffed effortlessly, but you know it took forever to get each tendril gelled to perfection.
My pulse climbs into my throat as I take a step backward. Then another. I trip over a rock as I stumble, but I catch myself. Glancing over my shoulder toward the roses on the porch, I’m terrified he’ll be standing right there with each movement of my head.
My purse slips off my shoulder as I fumble for my keys.
“Dammit,” I curse, digging blindly into the black hole of my bag. Why do I carry so much useless shit? Why haven’t I cleaned this out?
How could you have known you’d need to find your keys in a rush thanks to your stalker-ex?
My breaths come fast and shallow as I will my fingers to work. Every sound feels amplified—the breeze through the trees, the creak of the rocking chair, the blood roaring in my ears. Once again, I find myself feeling like an idiot in a horror movie.
I scan the cottage again.
Last night, the front door had been opened. The bathroom window, too. But I don’t see anything amiss today.
I didn’t sleep a wink. Could this be my sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on me?
No, my gut tells me.
My vision tunnels as I curse my useless hands.
“Please,” I mutter, panic wrapping around my throat.
My fingers brush cold metal, and I nearly sob. Yanking my keys free, I sprint toward my dad’s truck like the ground is on fire. I don’t look back. Don’t breathe until I’m yanking the door open and diving inside. Slamming it shut with shaking hands, I fumble for the lock.
The sound is loud in the quiet cab. Struggling to slip the key into the ignition, I double check the doors are locked before I hunch forward over the steering wheel. My chest heaves against the worn black wheel as I try to regulate my breathing.
I’ve got to tell someone, I finally convince myself. My past has caught up with me, and I’m no longer safe. He’s here. He’s found me. It’s only a matter of time before he appears like a thief in the night.
I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it twice before my fingers finally close around the device. The screen lights up. There’s already a text from Jett waiting for me, but I swipe it away. I can’t talk to him. I can’t bring my hell to his doorstep, not when he’s working through his own demons.
Scrolling through my contacts, I stab the familiar name.
Davis Baldwin.
I wait as the phone connects.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“You’ve reached Officer Davis Baldwin,” his familiar voice plays through the earpiece as it connects to voicemail.
I hang up and immediately dial the station. The phone rings once before a calm female voice answers.
“Silo Bay Police Department, how may I direct your call?”
“I need Officer Davis Baldwin,” I blurt. “Please, you’ve got to put me through to Davis Baldwin right now.”
There’s a pause. “Ma’am, what’s the nature—”
“Please,” I beg, choking on the word. “Please connect me. He knows me. Knows I’d only call if it were an emergency.”
There’s a longer pause this time, and I hear the telltale signs of typing in the background.
“One moment.”
I press my forehead to the steering wheel before jarring upward, terrified he’s going to jump out and knock on my window at any moment.
“Baldwin,” he answers.
Relief hits so hard I choke on a sob.
“Davis,” I gasp.
“Wren?” Concern laces his voice.
“I-I need. He…He found me.”
“Slow down,” he says, firm but also shockingly calm. “Who found you? Where are you right now?”
“At the cottage, locked inside the truck. I-I found flowers. On the porch.”
Silence.
“Flowers?” he asks, confused at why I’m freaking the fuck out over flowers. “Are they from Jett?”
I shake my head.
“Wren?”
Duh, idiot, he can’t see you shaking your head.
“No. The-they’re from my ex.”
“From Los Angeles? Are you sure?”
“Positive. It’s… It’s bad, Davis. Please, I know I sound insane, but I’m scared.”
“I’ll send someone out—”
“No,” I shout, interrupting him. “You can’t bring anyone out. I-I don’t want anyone knowing.”
He sighs. I imagine he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why not?”
“I-I don’t want it to spread around town and start a media circus.”
“Are you alone?”
“I think so,” I whisper, glancing around the property for the hundredth time. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Elias standing on my front porch, sporting a hockey mask and a machete. Jesus, Wren, this isn’t Friday the 13th, and Elias didn’t turn into Jason.
“Okay.” He cuts through my manic state. “I need you to breathe for me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I try…and fail to calm my breathing.
“Try again,” he prompts.
And I do. Only this time, my breathing slows slightly, but enough to satisfy Davis.
“Are you able to drive to the station?”
“I can’t go inside. I don’t want anyone to see me talking to the police.”
Another sigh and an imagined nose pinching. “I don’t want you going into the house either.”
My heart stutters. “What do I do?”
“Meet me at Shoreline Sips. Can you do that, Wren?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Stay with me until you get on the road. I want to make sure you’re in the clear before you hang up.”
I twist the key as the engine roars to life, flinching like it’s a gunshot as I grip the wheel. My palms are slick with sweat as I click the lock button again, even though the doors are locked.
Throwing the truck into drive, I whip a circle before flying down the gravel path. My eyes flick constantly to the mirrors as the fear remains.
“I’m on the road.”
“Okay,” he replies. “Take it easy and drive safely. I’ve got you, Wren.”
“Thanks, Davis.”
“Anytime. See you soon.”
He ends the call, and I place my phone in the cup holder.
The flat country roads blur past as I speed toward town, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
I spend more time watching my rear-view mirror than watching the road in front of me.
Good thing I know these roads by heart, even after all the years away. I remember every dip and every curve.
When the coffee shop finally comes into view, relief hits sharply, but it’s fleeting. Turning into the gravel lot behind Shoreline Sips, I’m grateful for the awkward time and the barely filled parking lot. I park at an angle, barely remembering to shut off the engine before I bolt inside.
The bell over the door jingles too cheerfully for the dark mood surrounding me.
The few people in the shop turn my way as I fumble through the door.
Scanning the room frantically, I spot Davis seated in the far corner, back against a wall, his sharp eyes assessing the room.
His broad shoulders hunch forward, his hands clasped around a to-go cup.
Seeing him grounds me, causing a deep exhale to slip free.
My shoulders relax as I cross the room. It’s not lost on me how eyes track my movement, whispers starting.
Life in a small town. Everyone notices everything.
Before I can speak, a cup slides onto the table.
“Matcha,” Julia says softly, squeezing my shoulder. “On me.”
I meet her eyes and she knows.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She gives my shoulder another gentle squeeze as she dips her head at Davis, offering him a small smile.
“I asked her if she knew your drink order,” he says, answering my silent question. I feel him watching me as I take a sip. Dark, broody eyes observe me as if he’s trying to crack the case without any details.
“I need to know what’s going on, Wren. Don’t leave anything out.”
I swallow. “Jett dropped me off from family dinner. He had to run some errands, so I told him not to wait for me to get inside. He was supposed to come back later anyway. I took my time walking up the sidewalk, looking at the flowers I planted. When I walked up my steps, that’s when I saw them.
Two dozen long-stemmed red roses. And I knew they were from him, even without a note. ”
“From who?”
“Elias Hearst, my ex-fiancé.” The words taste like bile on my tongue. “Last night when we got home from the lake, I noticed my front door was open.”
Davis grits his teeth, jaw clenching.
“I didn’t think anything about it. Figured I forgot to latch it in our haste to get to the boat dock, but it didn’t feel right because I always lock my door. Then, I went inside and found the bathroom window was open too.”
His jaw tightens more, and I’m afraid he’s going to crack a tooth. “Why would you go in?”