47
I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. It was a good day at the studio. The fox and fireflies birthday card that’s been fighting me for a week clicked into place with one clean stroke. I feel the kind of tired that comes from a productive day.
I grab my tote and step out into the heat that lingers even in June’s gentler light. The air smells faintly of cut grass. My snapdragons look a little wilted. I make a mental note to water them.
It’s been over a week since Joel told me about his father. It was the change we needed. We’ve grown closer in all the big and small ways. We’re more open with one another and trust is beginning to feel like something we do, not just something we say.
Joel is still watchful, and I don’t know if that wariness will ever leave him. But there’s a level of contentment in him now, as if something inside finally unclenched.
To ease Joel’s mind, I’m being more deliberate about my safety.
I lock my door every time, and I avoid walking alone after dark if I can help it.
When I set off anywhere, I share my live location with Joel and send a quick leaving now .
When I’m through the door, I end the share and text home safe . It’s our quiet check-in.
I’m careful, but I don’t let fear run my life. And Joel is learning not to let it run his.
Yesterday he told me Aaron and Gideon already knew about Roy Bellings.
Of course they did. When Joel and I started fake dating, they dug around, and the truth rose to the surface like it always does.
As a cybersecurity consultant, Aaron lives in the land of traces and tells.
When it comes to Gideon, very little gets past him.
He has connections I can’t even begin to map.
They met up with Joel, asked the hard questions, and chose not to hold a father’s sins against a son. After that, they apparently watched over me in small, ordinary ways. A well-timed check-in here, a walk to my car there. Protective has always been their love language.
Adjusting my tote on my shoulder, I detour to the mailbox before heading inside. The metal is warm against my fingertips. Inside, wedged against a flyer for garden mulch, sits a small package wrapped in brown paper.
I lift it out. There’s no return address. No postmark. No name.
Curious, I peel the paper away to reveal a plain wooden box. I ease the lid back. On a square of black velvet rests a single white chess piece.
The queen.