Chapter 15 Raine
Raine
The light is already soft when I open my eyes. I blink against the brightness and stretch, letting myself fully wake.
For a few seconds, I don’t remember falling asleep. Only the feeling of exhaustion wrapping me up until even the TV couldn’t keep me awake.
Now the laugh track is gone, replaced by the hush of the morning news, birdsong, and the slow tick of the hallway clock.
Something feels wrong.
Not loud or obvious—just off.
The air smells different. Cooler. Like the window’s been open even though I know I shut it.
I sit up, blinking toward the thin stripe of sunlight cutting across the floor. The covers are tucked neatly around me, like I’d done it half asleep.
Still, my skin prickles.
The house creaks in that old bones way, settling after the night’s chill. It shouldn’t sound unfamiliar, but it does.
I climb out of bed and pad toward the bathroom.
And that’s when I realize my first problem—I’m not wearing panties.
The events of last night hit me like a train. What I thought was a dream about a masked man hovering over me, touching me, wasn’t.
Coldness settles into my bones as I brush my teeth, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t recognize the satisfied glow in my eyes. But I know what it’s from. Or rather, who.
The masked man.
The same man I saw during the storm.
I rinse my mouth, then pad toward the stairs, my bare feet silent against the worn wood.
The smell of rain lingers in the air, mixed with something else—metal and earth.
A feeling that someone was inside my house is pervasive, rattling me to my core.
When I reach the landing, the living room sits exactly as I left it.
I wander through the foyer, checking the downstairs. The mug on the counter, the half-written to-do list on the fridge, and the nightlights still glow faintly in the corners.
I exhale, forcing a laugh. “Get a grip, Raine.”
Still, I check the front door. It’s locked, the deadbolt tight. So are the side entrance, mudroom, and cellar doors.
Everything’s fine.
Blowing out a breath, I wander back through the house, heading toward the kitchen. But one glance out the window stops me in my tracks.
Something small rests on the porch railing, catching the morning light.
I open the door, my heart tripping over itself as the air rushes in.
The flashlight I dropped that night in the storm rests there, sparkling beneath the light. No mud on it.
A shiver runs down my spine as I pick it up. The metal is cool and dry, as though it hasn’t seen rain in days. And when I flick it on, a bright light shines from it as though the batteries are new.
I remember dropping it and running inside, slamming and locking the door, a barrier between the masked man and me.
And now, it’s here, like someone left me a present.
I look out over the vineyard. Mist slides between the rows like smoke. The ridge glints faintly in the distance.
For a long moment, I stand there, listening for anything—an engine, a footstep, the echo of laughter.
Nothing.
Only the quiet hum of the morning and the faint scent of honey and damp soil in the air.
I close my hand around the flashlight, my pulse loud in my ears. “Owen probably found it,” I whisper, but the words don’t sound convincing.
Because deep down, I know better.
It’s him. The masked man who touched me.
It wasn’t a dream.