Chapter 2 #2
The doors were secure. The windows were locked. No broken glass. No pry marks. No signs of forced entry.
Whoever had been inside knew what they were doing. Knew her layout. Knew her. The only logical explanation was chilling—he hadn’t broken in. He’d already been inside before they locked up for the night.
Alex’s stomach twisted into a tighter knot he couldn’t undo.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t reckless. This was surgical. Someone had walked into her house, stood over her while she slept, and left behind a message that cut straight to her core.
And she hadn’t made a sound.
He looked at her again, really looked. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t crying. But she was splintering in slow motion.
And for the first time since he’d met her, Alex Marcel had no idea how to protect her. Not from this. Not from whoever or whatever had just declared war.
After clearing her basement and the first floor, Alex moved to the second floor with Charlotte on his heels. His eyes dropped to the floor in the hallway. A set of muddy footprints led out of Charlotte’s bedroom.
His jaw tightened. He crouched, reaching out to brush his fingers lightly against one of the prints. The dirt was dry now, but it was wet when it was tracked inside.
"You didn’t notice these?"
Charlotte’s voice was quiet. "Not at first."
Alex followed the trail with his eyes. They led out of her bedroom, but there were no footprints leading in.
His stomach turned. "Charlotte," he said carefully, “whoever did this was standing over you while you slept."
Her jaw tensed. "I know."
Alex ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. He crouched in front of her again, this time slower, his expression drawn tight with everything he wasn’t saying. His voice came quieter now, but it caught slightly on the words. “Did they hurt you?”
Not accusing. Not angry. Just that raw, unfiltered fear, the kind that only comes when you love someone and picture the worst.
Charlotte shook her head once. “No.”
His shoulders dropped, just slightly. Not in relief, but in restraint. He was holding something back—rage, panic. "Okay," he said, more to himself than her. "Okay. Nothing was taken?"
"Not that I can tell."
Alex’s hands curled into fists. This wasn’t a random break-in. This wasn’t about stealing or violence. This was about her.
He straightened, moving through the house. He checked the doors, the windows, the alarm panel—everything she had already checked. It was all secure.
If they wanted to hurt her, they would have. They wanted to leave a message. They wanted her to know they had been here.
Alex made his way back to the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck.
Charlotte returned her seat at the table, watching him. "You believe me now?"
His jaw tensed. "I never doubted you."
Charlotte let out a slow breath, but the exhaustion in her eyes hadn’t eased.
Alex sat down again, staring at her, what had almost happened settling into his chest.
"You're not safe here.”
Charlotte scoffed, but it was weak. "Alex."
"I mean it."
"You really think I’m going to run?"
He took an exasperated breath. "I think you need to be careful until we know what this is about."
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp. "I’ve been careful my whole life."
His lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t wrong. Charlotte had spent decades being careful, making sure she was three steps ahead of everyone. She had to. After Chuck died, she was the widowed mother of five girls.
But that was before someone stood over her bed in the middle of the night and left a message.
His fingers drummed against the table once before he finally spoke again. "What isn’t over?"
She went still.
"Whoever did this," he continued, "wants you to finish something. They want you to question yourself."
Her throat bobbed slightly, but she kept her expression neutral.
Alex exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. "This case," he nodded toward the photo, “who is the man in the photograph?"
Charlotte’s shoulders tensed just slightly.
His stomach dropped. "You weren’t planning to tell me."
Her jaw clenched.
Alex let out a humorless breath, shaking his head. "I wasn’t expecting you to shut me out.”
Charlotte winced. "I’m not?—"
"Charlotte."
She met his gaze, and for the first time, he saw hesitation. Not just that. Fear. Not of the person who left the photo—of telling him the truth. His fingers curled around the edge of the table. "You don’t trust me."
She flinched. "It’s not about trust."
"Then what is it about?" He didn’t mean for it to come out so sharp, but he couldn’t stop it.
She wouldn’t look at him.
That scared him more than the footprints, the knife, the photo, more than anything. Charlotte Everhart didn’t flinch. She didn’t deflect. But now? Now she was pulling away, hiding something big enough to shake her at the foundation. And she wouldn’t let him in.
His mind raced. Who the hell was in that photo? Why now? Why her?
He clenched his jaw, willing his voice not to rise again, not to give her another reason to shut down. He had to be steady. Had to be strong. For her. He felt like the floor had given way beneath both of them.
If Charlotte was scared, truly scared, then this wasn’t just serious. It was personal. And dangerous. And maybe already too far gone.
She was silent.
Alex looked down at the Polaroid again, at the younger version of the woman sitting across from him.
He wanted to demand answers. He wanted to shake the truth out of her.
But more than anything, he wanted to keep her safe.
His voice came out louder than he intended.
"I care about you, Charlotte. I love you. "
Her fingers tightened around the coffee mug again.
His heart beat a little harder. "You know that, don’t you?"
She exhaled slowly. "Alex."
He pushed the Polaroid back toward her, holding her gaze. "I’m not walking away," he said. "But I need you to meet me halfway."
She nodded, but something in her eyes told him she wasn’t sure if she could.
His jaw flexed as he stood, pushing the chair back. "I can't help you fix this if you won’t let me in," Alex said, his voice low. "Whatever this is... it’s already inside your door. And I’m still standing outside."
Charlotte glanced back down at the photo. "No.”
Alex stayed quiet for a long beat, his jaw working, fingers drumming once against the edge of the table before curling into a fist. “If you won’t let me in,” he said finally, his voice low but firm, “then at least do the right thing.”
Charlotte looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, call the police,” he said. “Report the break-in. The drugging. The photo. All of it.”
Her expression hardened. “And tell them what? That someone left a thirty-year-old memory on my nightstand and walked through my house without a trace?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning in. “Exactly that. Because someone did. And whether or not you’re ready to talk to me, they still need to know. You don’t get to brush this off because it’s inconvenient or because it points somewhere you don’t want to go.”
Her silence said enough.
Alex exhaled, sitting back, trying not to let the fear come out as anger. “I love you, Charlotte. But I can’t stand by and watch you ignore the kind of threat that stands over your bed while you sleep.”
She looked away.