CHAPTER 4
Ciara’s POV:
The heavy chrome exhaust of the Fergusons’ SUV let out one final, purring rumble before the tires crunched smoothly onto the dark asphalt, its taillights bleeding two long, crimson stains across the damp surface of Elm Street.
I stood on the porch, my arms wrapped securely around little Mia.
She was a solid, comforting weight against my ribs, her warm chest rising and falling in a slow, milk-drunk rhythm while her tiny thumb remained securely wedged between her lips.
The air was finally cooling down, the thick, honeysuckle-heavy humidity of the afternoon trading places with a crisp, violet evening breeze that rustled the edges of my olive-green t-shirt and tickled the small hairs at the nape of my neck.
“We’ll be back by eleven, Ciara! There’s juice in the fridge!” Mrs. Ferguson’s voice still echoed in the quiet air, a lingering reminder of the bright, untroubled suburban world she occupied.
I nodded into the darkness, waving my free hand until the red glow of their vehicle vanished entirely around the bend of the block.
The silence came rushing back instantly, heavy and loud, the way it always did in this part of town when the streetlamps took over.
But the minute that big car cleared the driveway, my eyes didn't linger on the empty road. My gaze cut straight across the street, snapping like a magnet to the large, shadowed facade of the psychologist’s house.
I stood perfectly still, my sneakers planted firmly on the welcome mat. I didn't blink. I didn't move.
And there he was.
Right behind the sharp, clean lines of the second-story blinds, a massive, unmistakable silhouette was framed against the faint interior gloom.
He was looking right down at me. Even across the distance of the two lawns and the cracked pavement, I could feel the sheer, unyielding weight of his focus—it was that same intense, diagnostic stare that had frozen the breath in my throat just ten minutes prior on the sidewalk.
But the exact microsecond my dark eyes locked onto his position, the silhouette flinched.
Snap.
The wooden slats slapped shut with a frantic, sudden motion, and the massive shadow dipped entirely out of view, disappearing into the dark room like a ghost that had just seen a priest.
A sudden, vibrant chuckle tore out of my throat, loud and unbothered in the quiet of the porch.
I had to bite my lower lip to keep from waking the baby.
“Oh, so we playing hide-and-seek now, Doctor?” I murmured to myself, the deep, rhythmic cadence of my Houston upbringing sliding effortlessly into the words.
It was hilarious, honestly. Six-foot-eight of pure, chiseled, intellectual white man, a whole-ass doctor with degrees on the wall and a sports car in the garage, crouching down on his expensive hardwood floors like a teenager caught peeking through the girls' locker room vents.
It seemed this Joshua guy was watching my every single move.
The first time he did it, it had unnerved me a little bit—woke up those old, defensive street instincts that tell you when a predator is tracking your perimeter.
But now? Seeing him scramble and duck like a clumsy giant?
A strange, delicious little thrill rippled straight through my stomach, leaving a warm, prickling trail in its wake.
“It seems the good doctor wants to dip his toes in some hot chocolate,” I thought, a proud, knowing smirk spreading across my face as I adjusted Mia’s weight against my shoulder.
But the minute that thought crossed my mind, a colder, sharper voice woke up in the back of my brain, a remnant of the survival instinct that had kept me alive through the wreckage of the Third Ward and the betrayal of Morgan.
What if this guy is actually some sort of creep, Ciara?
What if he’s a whole-ass weirdo lurking in that big-ass dark house, counting your steps?
I paused, staring at the blank, dead window across the street.
The glass looked like a sheet of obsidian under the streetlamp.
I let my eyes trace the perimeter of his property—the perfectly trimmed hedges, the silent sedan, the absolute lack of life.
It was giving a little bit of a stalker vibe.
A man who spends his entire day dissecting the broken machinery of people's minds, living all by himself in a house big enough for a family of six? It was a lot.
“Nah, he ain't,” I muttered softly, shaking my head against the chill. “He just fine and don't know how to act.”
From what I’d seen up close, Joshua Willis was spectacular.
He looked like something carved out of a block of marble by an artist who had a thing for severe, intimidating men.
That long, white-blonde ponytail tied back so tight it pulled the skin over his chiseled jawline, those washboard abs glistening in the morning sun, those dreamy, piercing blue eyes that looked like they could see the exact date and time you lost your damn mind—the man was hot.
Period. There was no debating the physics of it.
A wild, chaotic idea started to take root in my head right there on the porch, making my chest tighten with a mix of mischief and adrenaline. Maybe I’ll just show up at his office unannounced one afternoon.
The thought made me smile so hard my cheeks ached.
No phone call. No assistant. No booking an appointment through a website.
Just pulling up to his workplace in my best outfit, pushing through his office door, and sitting my thick, brown self right down in his expensive armchair.
I’d just walk in and unload my entire life on him without warning—the daddy wounds that still bled when the room got too quiet, the way Morgan and Tesha had turned my own bed into a crime scene of betrayal, the pressure of being the strong one for every single kid on this block while my own house sat empty.
I’d drop the whole, raw, unfiltered truth of Ciara Long right on his mahogany desk and see what he did with it.
If he could handle the weight of it without blinking—if his clinical, structured mind could actually hold a woman like me without breaking under the pressure—then I just might have to make him take a full dip in my hot sauce.
I let out another soft laugh, the sound rich and full of life, as I looked back one last time at the silent house across the street.
The windows remained dark, the blinds completely sealed.
For all his muscles and his fancy degrees, he looked incredibly, profoundly lonely over there.
A solitary giant rattling around in a massive, empty palace of shadows.
Maybe the good doctor just needed some real, high-quality female company to wake him up out of his clinical trance.
“Come on, Mia-gi,” I whispered affectionately to the sleeping girl, turning my back on the dark windows. “Let’s go inside before your momma thinks I’m out here star-gazing.”
I stepped back into the warmth of the Fergusons’ foyer, closing the heavy insulated door behind me. The deadbolt slid into place with a solid, metallic click, and I heaved a long, deep sigh of relief, letting the quiet safety of the house wrap around me like a familiar blanket.
***
The Fergusons’ living room was the ultimate testament to white-picket-fence domesticity.
It smelled like expensive lavender fabric softener, clean carpets, and the faint, cinnamon-apple tang of a plugin air freshener tucked behind the couch.
The furniture was all plush, oversized beige fabric that swallowed you whole when you sat down, a far cry from the stiff, leather minimalism I imagined was sitting across the street.
I carried Mia over to the massive sectional sofa, laying her down gently against a pile of soft throw pillows.
She let out a small, contented grunt, her little legs curling upward as she settled back into her deep sleep.
I reached over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and clicked the television to life, immediately dropping the volume down to a low, non-intrusive hum.
I navigated straight to the Boomerang channel.
The bright, jazz-infused intro of the Pink Panther cartoon immediately filled the screen, the slinky, pink silhouette stepping across the glass with that smooth, unbothered saxophone cadence.
Mia absolutely loved this show, but if I was being completely honest with myself, I loved it just as much.
There was something incredibly comforting about the old animation—the bright, flat colors, the lack of loud, screaming dialogue, the simple, nostalgic rhythm of a character who just strolled through chaos without ever losing his cool.
It reminded me of Saturday mornings back in Houston, curled up on the linoleum floor of Momma’s old kitchen while the smell of frying bacon and coffee filled the air.
I settled myself down on the opposite end of the couch, stretching my long legs out across the cushions. My phone vibrated in my lap, the screen lighting up with a harsh, white glare against the dim room.
It was a direct message on Instagram.
I unlocked the phone, my eyes narrowing as I read the handle.
It was some gamer guy from Atlanta—a dude with a verified blue checkmark, a profile picture of him leaning against a custom sports car, and a bio that read “Investor. Entrepreneur. Staying blessed.” He’d sent a fire emoji followed by a text: “You a whole meal, shorty. When you pulling up to the A-Town so I can show you how a real one treats a queen?”
I stared at the screen for a long, flat second, a profound sense of exhaustion washing over my spirit. I didn't respond. I couldn't bring myself to do it.