Chapter 8 #2
Mrs. Caldwell pauses mid-sentence when I pass, her voice dipping just enough that I catch it without hearing the words.
Two teachers standing by the copy room glance over, then look away a second too quickly, like they didn’t mean to get caught doing it. Even the front office feels different when I stop to sign a form, the receptionist giving me a polite smile that lingers half a beat longer than usual.
It’s not unfriendly.
That would be easier.
This is curiosity. Quiet, contained, but there all the same, moving through the building like a current I can’t see but can definitely feel.
Small town. Nothing stays quiet for long.
I keep my expression steady, my shoulders squared, moving through it like it doesn’t touch me at all.
I’ve learned how to do that over the years, how to exist inside attention without letting it dictate how I respond to it.
Still, I can’t help the way my mind starts connecting dots I didn’t want to think about yet.
Me showing up at the ranch.
Hadley.
Jace.
None of that stays contained, not here.
“Morning, Riley,” Principal Harris says as I step into the office, his tone normal but his eyes a little sharper than usual, like he’s measuring something he hasn’t decided how to ask about yet.
“Morning,” I answer, keeping it light, professional, exactly the way it needs to be.
He nods once, then glances back down at his paperwork like that’s all there is to it, and I move on before anything else can be said.
Because I’m not ready to explain anything.
Not here.
Not yet.
I make it through the rest of the morning on routine alone, one student after another, one conversation after the next, each one grounding me in a way that keeps everything else at a manageable distance.
It works well enough until lunch, when I step outside for a few minutes of quiet, needing air more than anything else.
The parking lot sits mostly full, the sun higher now, warming the asphalt in a way that makes everything feel slower, heavier.
Normal.
Except it isn’t.
My gaze moves automatically, scanning without thinking, the same way it always does when something in me feels unsettled, and that’s when I notice it.
That truck.
Parked farther out than most, angled just enough that I can’t see inside clearly from where I stand.
It could be nothing. Probably is. Why would it be here?
There are always trucks around here. This is the truck I saw the other day on my mom’s street.
There are always people coming and going, parents, contractors, deliveries. There’s no reason for this one to stand out except it does.
Except for the way something in my chest tightens when my eyes land on it. I know that is the same one I saw the other day.
I shift my weight, pretending I’m just taking in the day, letting my gaze move past it like I’m not paying attention at all, even as I catalogue everything I can without staring.
Dark color.
Tinted windows.
Engine off.
No movement inside.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax, forcing logic back into place where instinct is starting to take over.
You’re overthinking this.
It’s a truck in a parking lot.
That’s it.
I turn away after a second, heading back inside before I can stand there long enough to make it something bigger than it is, but the feeling doesn’t leave.
It follows me down the hallway, sits in the back of my mind through my next session, lingers just enough that I find myself glancing toward the windows without meaning to.
And I hate that.
Because I don’t scare easily.
I don’t let things get under my skin without a reason.
Which means if this feeling is here…there’s a chance it’s not as nothing as I want it to be.
By the time the final bell rings, the day has settled into something that almost feels normal again.
The steady rhythm of it carrying me through one conversation after another until there’s barely space left to think about anything else.
I gather a few folders from my desk. Sacking them neatly even though I could leave them for tomorrow, and take my time shutting down my computer, stretching out the last few minutes like that might make whatever’s waiting outside feel less immediate.
It doesn’t.
The hallway empties in waves, kids filing out in clusters of noise and movement that slowly fades into the late afternoon quiet. I wait until most of them are gone before I step outside. The air is warmer now, the sun hanging lower but still bright enough to cast long shadows across the lot.
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous.
That it was one truck.
One moment.
Nothing more than a coincidence that I let get under my skin because I was already off-balance to begin with.
Still, my eyes scan the lot the second I clear the doors.
Automatically.
Without thinking.
It takes less than a second to find it.
The same truck.
Parked in a different spot now, closer than it was earlier, angled just enough that it faces the exit instead of the building this time. It shouldn’t mean anything.
People move their vehicles all the time, coming and going, picking up kids, running errands, living their lives without any reason for me to pay attention to it.
Except I do.
Because I recognize it.
Not just the color or the tint on the windows, but the way it sits, the way it doesn’t quite blend into everything else around it the way it should.
My steps slow without me meaning them to, my grip tightening around the folders in my hands as I keep my expression neutral, forcing myself not to stare even though every instinct I have is telling me to look closer.
There’s still no movement inside.
No door opening.
No engine turning over.
Just… waiting.
A cold thread slips down my spine, subtle but sharp enough that I can’t ignore it this time. I hate the way my body reacts before my brain catches up, the way awareness sharpens, senses pulling tight like something just shifted from possibility into something a little more real.
You’re overreacting.
That’s what I tell myself as I keep walking, steady pace, no sudden movements, nothing that would give away that I’ve noticed anything at all.
It’s a small town.
People sit in their trucks.
They wait for someone.
They take calls.
There are a hundred normal explanations. None of them land.
I reach my car and set the folders on the passenger seat before sliding in, closing the door with a quiet click that sounds louder than it should in the stillness around me.
I lock the doors. My hands rest on the steering wheel for a second, fingers curling against it as I force myself to breathe evenly.
Don’t panic.
There’s no reason to panic.
I start the engine and check my mirrors like I always do, routine taking over even as something unsettled sits just beneath the surface.
The truck hasn’t moved.
Not yet.
I pull out of my space and head toward the exit, resisting the urge to look over again as I pass it, even though I can feel it there, feel the weight of it in a way I can’t quite explain.
It’s not until I reach the end of the lot and glance in my rearview mirror that my stomach drops.
The truck pulls out.
Slow.
Deliberate.
And it turns in the same direction I do.
My grip tightens on the wheel, pulse kicking up hard enough that I feel it in my throat, and this time there’s no brushing it off, no easy explanation that settles it back into something harmless.
Because I’ve seen it before. Not just today. The same truck. Watching. Waiting. Following. And this time, I know it’s not a coincidence.