Chapter 48 Tish
TISH
My blood turns to ice in my veins as Becky’s innocent words echo in my mind.
The description she gives of a tall man with curly blonde hair and light blue eyes describes Mica exactly.
But that’s impossible. He’s supposed to be locked away for years still.
“Mommy, why do you look scared?” Becky asks, her small hand tugging on my sleeve. “The nice man said you knew he was watching us. He said it was okay.”
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
Carl’s strong hand finds my shoulder, his touch grounding me even as panic threatens to consume me.
Jake moves closer, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something fierce and protective.
Ash’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking, his brown eyes dark with barely contained rage.
“I need to make a phone call,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and dial the prison’s information line.
The automated system picks up, and I navigate through the menu with trembling fingers.
“Please hold while we connect you to an operator,” the mechanical voice says.
The wait feels eternal. Carl’s thumb strokes gentle circles on my shoulder while Jake positions himself protectively in front of me and the girls.
Ash paces like a caged animal, his fists clenched at his sides.
“State Correctional Facility, how can I help you?” a bored-sounding woman finally answers.
“I need to verify the status of an inmate,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Mica Torrino, prisoner number…” I recite the numbers I memorized years ago, the ones that represented my freedom.
There’s typing on the other end, then a pause that stretches too long. “Ma’am, that inmate was released on December 15th.”
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.
December 15th. Weeks ago.
All this time, while I’ve been falling in love, building a new life, feeling safe, he’s been out there. Watching. Waiting.
“Trisha,” Carl’s voice is gentle but urgent as he retrieves my phone. “What did they say?”
“He’s out,” I whisper, the words feeling like broken glass in my throat. “He’s been out since December 15th.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Even the girls seem to sense the shift in atmosphere, moving closer together on the hotel room couch.
“But the system still showed him as incarcerated,” Ash says, his voice deadly quiet.
I call back, my hands steadier now that the initial shock is wearing off, replaced by a familiar survival instinct I thought I’d never need again.
This time I get a different operator, one who sounds more competent.
“The computer system has been having issues with updates,” she explains after I ask about the discrepancy. “We’ve had several cases where the online database wasn’t reflecting recent releases. I apologize for any confusion.”
Confusion. As if this is just some minor inconvenience instead of my worst nightmare coming true.
“We need to get on the road,” Carl says once I hang up. His coach voice is in full effect, calm and authoritative. “Now.”
As we gather our things and head to the bus, I can’t stop looking over my shoulder. Every shadow could be hiding him. Every stranger could be working for him. The paranoia I lived with for years comes flooding back, and I hate how easily I slip back into that mindset.
The girls chatter excitedly about going home as we settle into our seats on the bus, completely oblivious to the danger they were in.
Krystal shows Becky a new coloring book she got, and Becky shares her leftover candy from New Year’s Eve. Their innocence is both heartbreaking and terrifying.
“He told us our parents knew he was watching us,” Becky repeats to Krystal, and my stomach lurches again. “He was really nice. He bought us hot chocolate and let us pet his dog.”
“What kind of dog?” Jake asks, his voice carefully casual as he leans forward in his seat across the aisle.
“A big black one with pointy ears,” Krystal answers. “Like a police dog, but friendlier.”
German Shepherd. Mica always loved those dogs, said they were loyal and fierce. Of course he’d use one to gain the girls’ trust.
I pull out my phone again and call Trent, my fingers shaking as I dial. He answers on the second ring.
“Tish.” The way he said my name was flat. “Have you made your decision yet?”
“Trent, I need you to listen carefully,” I interrupt, then put the phone on speaker so the guys can hear. “Mica is out of prison. He’s been out since December 15th, and he was with the girls last night.”
The string of curses that flows from my brother’s mouth would make a sailor blush. “How the hell is that possible? He had years left on his sentence.”
“I don’t know, but it gets worse. I think he’s been behind everything that’s happened on this tour. The bus breaking down, the missing equipment, the photos…” My voice trails off as the full scope of his manipulation becomes clear.
“Son of a bitch,” Ash growls, his knuckles white where he grips the armrest of his seat. “He’s been playing with us this whole time.”
“But how?” Jake asks, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “How could he orchestrate all of that from the outside?”
“Money,” Carl says grimly. “And connections. Prison doesn’t reform men like him, it just gives them time to plan and network.”
The bus rumbles to life beneath us, and I feel a small measure of relief as we pull away from the hotel. At least we’re moving, putting distance between us and wherever Mica might be lurking.
Then a memory hits me like a physical blow, and my breath catches in my throat.
“The roses,” I whisper, my hand flying to my mouth.
“What roses?” Ash asks immediately, his protective instincts on high alert.
“The first day of the tour, there was a bouquet of red roses on my doorstep. I thought…” I look between the three men who have become my world, my heart sinking as I see the confusion in their eyes. “I thought one of you had sent them.”
Carl shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t send any roses, Trisha.”
“Not me,” Jake says, his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found.
“I told you then that I didn’t send them,” Ash confirms, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
The realization hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
If none of them sent the roses, then there’s only one person who could have.
The same person who used to bring me red roses when we first started dating, before I knew what he really was.
Mica knows where I live.