18. Jesse
— ? —
Jesse
The envelope is under my door at midnight.
I almost miss it. I’m half-asleep, coming back from the bathroom, and my foot catches the edge of something that shouldn’t be there. White paper against brown carpet. No stamp. No return address. Just my name in block letters that make my blood run cold.
I don’t open it.
Every instinct I have says rip it open, read it, figure out what we’re dealing with before anyone else has to know. That’s what I would have done a year ago, making decisions for Lo instead of with her, keeping her in the dark because I thought darkness was the same as safety.
I’m not that man anymore.
I pull on boots and my old roping shirt over my t-shirt and sweats. I pick up my phone. Dial Lo’s number. She answers on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Jesse? It’s midnight.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Something came. A letter, slid under my door at the inn. I haven’t opened it.” I take a breath. “Can I come over? I don’t want to decide anything without you seeing it first.”
A pause. Then: “Come.”
I grab my keys. The envelope sits on the passenger seat like a bomb that hasn’t decided whether to go off.
The drive to Bree’s takes seven minutes. Lo’s cabin is dark when I pull up, the porch light on. The thought of her alone inside makes my chest tight.
I knock softly. Then louder.
A light comes on inside. Footsteps. The door opens a crack, chain still on.
She studies my face through the gap. Whatever she sees makes her close the door, my heart drops, but then I hear the chain sliding free.
“Come in.”
The cabin is small but warm. A single lamp casts everything in soft gold. Lo’s wearing flannel pants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks tired and worried and beautiful.
“Sit,” she says, pointing at the couch. “Tell me what’s happening.”
I don’t sit. I hold out the envelope.
“This is it. My name in block letters, same as the ones that came to the ranch.” I meet her eyes. “Still sealed. I’m not deciding for you again.”
She looks at the envelope. Looks at me. Her expression shifts, surprise, then something I can’t name.
“You didn’t open it.”
“No.”
“You drove out here at midnight to give me a sealed envelope.”
“I said every piece of information, the same day. I meant it.”
“You could have opened it. Read it. Decided it wasn’t worth waking me up over.”
“That’s not my decision to make. Not anymore.”
She takes the envelope from my hand. Our fingers brush, and I feel it in my chest. She turns the envelope over, examines it, runs her thumb along the sealed flap.
“Sit down,” she says again. “You’re making me nervous, looming like that.”
“I don’t loom.”
“You’re six-four and you’re standing in my cabin at midnight looking like you’re about to punch through a wall. That’s looming.”
“I’m concerned, not looming.”
“The wall doesn’t know the difference.”
I sit. The couch is small, maybe four feet, and my knees bump the coffee table. Lo settles into the armchair across from me, envelope in her lap.
“You could have stayed on the phone,” she says. “Instead of driving out here in the middle of the night like a lunatic.”
“I wanted to see your face when you read it. In case it’s bad.”
“And if I’d told you to leave?”
“Then I would have left.”
“Would you?”
“I’m trying, Lo. I know I’ve gotten it wrong. I’m trying to figure out where the lines are.”
She almost smiles. Then she looks down at the envelope, and the almost-smile fades.
“Okay. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
She slides her finger under the flap. The paper tears. She pulls out a single sheet, white, unlined, same block letters.
I watch her read it. Her face doesn’t change much, but I know her tells, the tightening around her eyes, the way her jaw sets, the slight tremor in her hands.
“Lo?”
She hands me the letter.
I KNOW ABOUT THE CABIN. THE BABY DOESN’T CHANGE ANYTHING.
Two sentences. Someone knows where she is. Someone knows about the baby. Someone’s been watching.
“This came to the inn,” Lo says. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the effort. “Not here. They know where you’re staying, but maybe not exactly which cabin I’m in.”
“Or they’re playing games. Letting us know they could come here if they wanted to.”
“Maybe.”
“We need to call Peter. Now.”
“It’s midnight.”
“Someone slid a threat under my door. That’s not a morning problem.” I’m already dialing. She doesn’t stop me.
Peter answers on the third ring, voice sleep-rough but alert. I put him on speaker.
“Letter under my door at the inn. Block letters, no stamp. Says they know about the cabin. About the baby.”
“You at the cabin now?”
“Yes. With Lo.”
“Don’t touch the envelope again. I’m sending a deputy to the farm to collect it and check the grounds. Another unit will check the inn. Stay inside, doors locked. I’ll be there at dawn for full statements.”
“Thank you.”
“Lo?” Peter’s voice softens. “You okay?”
“I’m okay. Scared, but okay.”
“That’s reasonable. Deputy should be at the inn in fifteen, farm in twenty. Sit tight.”
He hangs up. The cabin feels smaller in the silence.
“I can’t just sit here and-”
“And what? Panic? Pace around my cabin like a caged animal?” She stands up, crosses to me, puts her hand on my arm. The touch stops me cold. “This isn’t productive. Blaming yourself, catastrophizing - it doesn’t help.”
“Then what does help?”
“Figuring out what to do next. Together. Like adults who communicate instead of adults who spiral.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re doing a very good impression of it.”
“I’m concerned.”
“You’re terrified. There’s a difference.”
I look at her. She looks back at me. And something in my chest cracks open.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m terrified. I’m terrified that I brought this to your door. I’m terrified that someone knows where you are because they followed me. I’m terrified that I keep trying to do the right thing and it keeps not being enough.”
“Jesse-”
“I should have opened the letter. I should have handled it, dealt with it, made it go away before you ever had to see it. That’s what I would have done before, and at least then you’d be sleeping right now instead of standing in your living room at midnight reading threats.”
“And I’d wake up tomorrow not knowing someone was watching. Not knowing the danger. Making decisions based on incomplete information.” She squeezes my arm. “That’s not better. That’s just a different kind of scared.”
“At least you’d be sleeping.”
“I don’t want to sleep through my own life, Jesse. I did that for a year. I’m done with it.”
I don’t have an argument for that. I stood in that room at the inn with my thumb on the flap, and the only thing I got right tonight was picking up the phone.
“That’s the new version,” Lo says quietly. “Calling instead of deciding.”
“Trying to be.”
She looks at me for a long moment.
“The couch,” she says finally.
“What?”
“You can sleep on the couch. At least it’s warm in here.”
“The couch is four feet long.” I eye it doubtfully.
“I’m aware.”
“I’m six-four.”
“I’m also aware. I was there when you bought jeans.” She doesn’t crack.
“I won’t fit on that couch.”
“Then you’ll be uncomfortable. That sounds like a you problem.”
“Lo-” She holds up a hand.
“Take it or leave it. Those are your options.”
I look at the couch. I look at her. I look at the couch again.
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“I’m sure you have. You toured with a band that thought sleeping in a van was ‘authentic.’”
“It was authentic. Authentically terrible.” I lower myself onto the cushions to prove a point.
“And yet you survived.”
“Barely. I have chronic back problems now.”
“You have chronic dramatic problems. Your back is fine.” She says it without a shred of sympathy.
“My back is a disaster. It makes sounds when I stand up.”
“Everyone’s back makes sounds when they stand up. That’s called being over thirty.”
“I’m thirty-four. I’m practically elderly.”
“You’re practically ridiculous.” She shakes her head, but she’s almost smiling. “I’ll get you a blanket.”
She disappears into the bedroom and comes back with a blanket and a pillow that’s seen better days.
“Try not to snore,” she says.
“I don’t snore.”
“You snore like a freight train passing through a tunnel. I have five years of evidence.”
“That’s slander.”
“That’s documentation. I was going to use it in the divorce proceedings.”
The word lands between us. Divorce. We haven’t talked about it, not really, not since I showed up at the gate, not since we started this careful dance of rebuilding.
“Are we?” I ask. “Getting divorced?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“What would help you decide?”
“Time. Consistency. Not getting murdered by a stalker in the middle of the night.”
“I can help with two of those things.”
“Which two?”
“Time and consistency. The stalker situation is more of a team effort.”
“At least you’re honest about your limitations.”
“I’m trying to be honest about everything. It’s exhausting, but I’m committed.”
She stands there, looking at me across the small room, and I don’t know what she’s thinking. I never know anymore. There was a time when I could read her like a book, now she’s learned to hide.
“Goodnight, Jesse.”
“Night, Lo. I’ll be right here. All four feet of me that fit.”
She goes into the bedroom. The door closes. I hear her moving around, the creak of the bed, the rustle of blankets.
I sit on the four-foot couch and look at the letter on the coffee table.
Someone out there is watching. All I can do is sit on a couch that’s too small and wait.
Peter sends a deputy to collect the original and check the grounds. The kid bags the letter, walks the perimeter with a flashlight, doesn’t find anything. Says the sheriff wants us both awake and talking at first light.
After he leaves, I lie down. My feet hang off one end. My head barely fits on the pillow. I pull up the photo I took of the letter and stare at the block letters until they blur.
I don’t sleep for a long time.
***
Peter arrives at dawn.
He’s been coordinating with Pruitt since March, when Lo first reported the letter she’d brought from the ranch. He already has the bagged original from last night.
“Same handwriting,” he says. “Same profile. Consistent with what Pruitt’s been tracking.”
“The car Lo saw yesterday evening - your deputy checked but didn’t find anything.”
“We’ll keep looking.” Peter turns to me. “And the label? Your manager? They were involved initially?”
“My manager was-” I stop. “It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it for me.”
“Sloane used the detective’s secrecy advice to sell me on hiding the marriage. I followed it. From my own wife.”
“That was a mistake.”
“I know. One of many.”
“Pruitt’s people already have her communications flagged. You seen anything new that ties her to this? The letters, I mean?”
“I don’t know. My judgment about her isn’t reliable anymore.”
“We’ll keep at it. Pruitt’s people are pulling more records.”
“What can we do?” I ask. “In the meantime?”
“Stay alert. Vary your routines. Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it.” He looks at Lo. “You’ve got people here? At the farm?”
“Bree, Rafael. Molly sometimes.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” He stands. “I’m going to have deputies run extra patrols on the road. Not constant - we don’t have the manpower for that - but regular sweeps, random times. Enough to make anyone watching think twice.”
“Thank you,” Lo says.
“Don’t thank me yet. These things are hard to track, especially when the threats come from out of the area.” He shakes both our hands. “You see anything suspicious, you call. Day or night. I mean it.”
“We will,” I say.
He leaves. The cabin feels emptier without him, the weight of everything settling back in.
“I should go,” I say. “Rafael’s expecting me. It’s nearly six.”
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll call if anything happens?”
“I’ll call.” Her voice is patient.
“And you won’t go anywhere alone?”
“Jesse.”
“I’m just asking.” She gives me a look.
“You’re hovering, not asking.”
“Hovering implies I’m being annoying about it.”
“You are being annoying about it.” But there’s no heat in it.
“I prefer to think of it as thorough.”
“You can prefer whatever you want. It’s still annoying.”
I leave my shirt on the chair. Check my pockets for keys. I’m almost to the door when I stop.
“Lo?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For letting me stay.”
“Thank you for not opening the letter.”
“It was yours to open.”
“I know.” She pauses. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”
I nod. Step out onto the porch.
The morning is cool and gray, early light making everything soft and uncertain. I take a breath of clean air. Turn toward my truck.
And look through the window without meaning to.
Lo is standing in the middle of the cabin. She’s changed out of her pajama shirt and into something else, an old roping shirt, faded blue with a tear in one sleeve. My shirt. The one I left on the chair this morning.
She’s holding her belly with both hands, looking down at it, and her lips are moving. Talking to the baby. Talking to our daughter in the quiet of the morning, wearing my shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She doesn’t know I can see her.