Chapter 32
Lucky
I hear it first as a shift in the floorboards, subtle, almost polite. My heart jumps to my throat before my brain can even catch up.
Not Ethan. Not anyone I know.
I freeze, the coffee mug still in my hand, the steam rising between me and… the door.
And him...
Sheifer.
The name hits me like a punch, but the sight—or maybe the absence of sight—makes my stomach tighten. He’s here. I just know it. Inside my house. My sanctuary. The lake house that’s supposed to be safe.
I swallow hard. My hands shake. The itch under my skin buzzes like electricity, making me jittery, tense, too aware of every sound. I clamp down. I will not lose it. Not today. Not in front of him.
I drop the mug—careful, not clanging—and creep toward the hall. My breathing is shallow, uneven. Every step is measured. I’m alive in the sound of the floor beneath my feet, the hum of the fridge, the wind against the window—but I also notice the silence. The unnatural stillness.
He’s not supposed to be here. I know his history. Seven years of terror, watching, waiting, sneaking into my head when I least expect it. And he’s back in the literal sense. Somehow, he’s gotten past every measure Ethan put in place.
A flash of anger fires through me.
Not today, asshole. Not ever.
I grip the banister hard. My heart hammers, but my brain clicks into gear. I’ve survived this before. I’ve survived worse. And now I have him. Not just me. Ethan. That gives me strength.
I reach front room see him—he’s in the shadow of the doorway, calm, patient, too quiet. That’s what makes him dangerous. The way he moves like he belongs. Like he’s claimed the space without even asking.
Michael Sheifer.
He looks bigger than my nightmares and somehow worse—all angles and shadows, clothes hanging off him like he stole them from a scarecrow. His eyes are wrong, too bright, too hungry. Greasy blond hair plastered to his temples, scruff over his jaw like he forgot to be human for a while.
But his smile—
That smile I haven’t seen in seven years, not since the courtroom. It crawls up my spine like a cold hand.
“Hello, Lucky.”
My pulse slams so hard it hurts.
I force my feet to stay planted.
His gaze drags over me, slow, familiar, obsessive.
“You dyed your hair,” he says softly, almost disappointed. “The pink is gone.”
His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me.
“It’s okay.” His smile widens. “We’ll just dye it back. Pink suits you. It’s how the world remembers you. How you’ll be remembered forever.”
My stomach drops.
Remembered.
Past tense.
There’s always been an endgame with him, hasn’t there? Not fame. Not closeness. Not obsession.
A story that ends with me frozen in time. Permanent. Preserved.
Dead.
I force air into my lungs, slow, controlled. Ethan’s voice echoes in my head—stay calm, stay aware, don’t give him what he wants.
My voice somehow comes out steady. “Michael… you don’t have to do this.”
He tilts his head, bird-like, curious. “I do. You left me no choice. You went quiet. Disappeared.” His eyes flare. “You left me.”
A tremor runs through me. Seven years since he broke into my home. Seven years, he whispered my name in my dreams. And he hasn’t changed. Not even a little.
“I’m here now,” I say carefully. “We can talk.”
He giggles—an actual giggle. High. Wrong.
“Oh, Lucky… no. We’re past talking. This…” He looks around the house like it’s a stage built just for him. “This is our ending. Our perfect ending. You and me. No more interruptions.”
His eyes drop to my feet, to the tremble in my fingers, to anything he can read and twist and savor.
I take one slow step back.
His smile sharpens.
“Yes. Run,” he whispers. “I like it when you run. But this time you won’t escape so easily, because I know you well.”
My heart stutters.
Ethan.
Where is he?
Why isn’t the door crashing open?
My breath shudders out, but I lift my chin.
I’ve spent seven years running from the ghost of this man.
Seven years drowning in the silence he left behind.
Not today.
Today I stand my ground, even if my knees want to buckle and my throat wants to close.
This piece of shit wants a perfect ending?
Fine.
He’s going to get one.
Just not the one he thinks.
I plant my feet. My voice is sharper than I feel. “You’re done,” I snap. “Get out. Now.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. But I see him watching me, and I feel my pulse surge with something I didn’t think I’d feel: power.
The fear is still there—god, it’s still there—but so is the fire. And for the first time, I know I won’t run. Not today. Not with Ethan in the world behind me, not with Lily somewhere safe. Not with all the music I’ve clawed back into my veins.
This is my second chance at life, and Michael Sheifer won’t ruin it for me.
I take a deep, bracing breath and step forward, ready to confront the nightmare that’s haunted my life for years.
And for the first time, I feel… almost alive.
His eyes flick toward the window—just for a second.
It’s enough.
I lunge for the hallway. Not graceful. Not strategic. Just pure, desperate instinct.
I hear him laugh—like this is a game.
“Lucky…” His voice sings after me. “Don’t make me chase you.”
I sprint. My socks skid on the wood floor. I grab the first thing I can—a heavy ceramic vase from the console table—and whirl just as he rounds the corner.
I smash it across his arm.
It barely slows him.
He grabs my wrist—iron-tight—and slams me against the wall hard enough that spots burst behind my eyes.
“Stop running,” he hisses, breath hot, sour. “Why do you always run?”
“Because you’re INSANE!” I choke out, kicking, clawing, anything to break free.
He presses his body weight against me, trapping me. I can feel how excited he is. Not sexually—worse. Triumphant. Purposeful.
“You’re ruining it,” he warns, voice trembling. “This was supposed to be perfect.”
I drive my knee up.
Not high enough. Not hard enough. But it hits. He grunts—a sharp, startled sound—so I do it again, this time twisting, clawing at his face with my free hand.
My nails rake across his cheek.
He hisses, grabbing at my wrist—
I swing again, this time with a fist, wild and messy, catching his jaw.
For one second, he actually stumbles.
Hope flares—bright, impossible.
I try to run.
He recovers too fast.
His hand fists in my hair, yanking me backward so hard my vision blanks white. I hit the wall with my shoulder, pain detonating down my arm.
“BITCH—” he snarls, and his backhand cracks across my mouth.
Blood floods my tongue. Stars burst. The room tilts sideways.
But I don’t fall. I won’t fall.
I slam my elbow back—into his ribs. He wheezes, grip loosens—
I try to bolt again.
He grabs me around the waist, lifts me clean off my feet like I weigh nothing.
My nails dig into the doorframe, splintering wood. He rips me free.
“Your boyfriend won’t save you,” he whispers into my hair, breath shaking with excitement. “I made sure of that.”
Cold shoots through me.
What did he do to Ethan?
Panic detonates so fast I almost scream his name again, but I catch it in my throat. I won’t give this lunatic the satisfaction.
I twist in his grip, kicking every inch I can reach—the shin, the knee, the side of his calf. One kick lands hard enough that he curses and staggers.
But he doesn’t let go.
The back door bangs open—
Warm air hits my skin.
Pine. Dirt. Lake water.
His car waits behind the trees, trunk already open like a mouth.
“No—NO—Michael—stop—” I thrash, clawing at anything I can grab—tree bark, the doorframe, his shirt.
He drags me across the threshold anyway.
“You’ll sleep now,” he murmurs.
Something sharp pierces my arm.
A syringe.
I gasp, shove at him with every ounce of terror left in me.My palm connects with his throat—he chokes, stumbles, but the drug is already flooding my bloodstream.
Warm.
Buzzing.
Hot and slow.
“No… no… please…” My voice slurs as my knees give out. “Ethan…”
The world tilts sideways, melting at the edges.
Sheifer’s face swims above me—smiling.
“Shh,” he croons, stroking my cheek like he has any right. “You’ll wake up with me. Just us. As it was always meant to be. Quiet. Finally quiet.”
The world fades. Darkens. Softens.
He lifts me like a rag doll, carries me to the open trunk, and tosses me inside.
The lid slams.
Dark. Too dark. No air. No music. No Ethan.
The drug pulls me under, swallowing the edges of me, stealing my voice, my fight, my name.
My last thought before the black hits is a whisper I can’t hold on to:
Ethan, please come.