Chapter 19
Boone
I’m sitting in a booth at a little roadside diner, watching Aubree pick at the corner of her napkin, and the tension coiled in my chest hasn’t loosened an inch since I woke up this morning.
My back is to the wall, so I can keep an eye on the entrance and the windows.
It’s a habit I picked up in the military and never really lost. I’ve got a direct line of sight on the door and on everyone else in this place.
The diner is one of those small, unassuming joints with red vinyl booths, a checkered floor, and a faint smell of bacon grease that seems permanent.
The waitress who seated us gave me a look like she expected me to cause trouble—I guess my scowl isn’t exactly subtle.
But with everything that’s happened, I can’t afford to relax.
Aubree notices me tense up and offers a small smile. “You okay?” she asks, her voice barely audible over the low hum of conversation around us.
“Yeah,” I mutter, scanning the patrons again. The lunch counter is occupied by two older men eating pancakes, and a couple in their twenties hovers over a shared plate of waffles. Nothing looks threatening, but I’m on edge anyway.
She wets her lips, then glances at the menu again. We’ve already ordered, but I see her hand tremble slightly as she tries to act like she’s just browsing. Guilt knots in my gut. She shouldn’t have to live like this—scared, on the run, trusting a guy she barely knows to keep her safe.
A moment later, one of the men at the counter stands, dropping some bills onto the table.
As he leaves, he passes our booth and flicks a glance in Aubree’s direction—probably just giving her a once-over because she’s pretty, but it’s enough to send my adrenaline spiking.
I shoot out a hand, nearly grabbing the guy by his collar.
“Hey!” His startled yelp makes the entire diner pause.
The man stumbles back, eyes wide. He’s wearing a ratty jacket and jeans, and something about him reminds me of an old farmer just looking for a hearty meal.
Definitely not a threat. But for a split second, the fear and tension in my body override logic.
I’m halfway out of my seat, my fingers curled, ready to slam him against the wall if needed.
“Boone,” Aubree whispers sharply, her hand on my forearm. Her touch is gentle, but the urgency in her voice snaps me out of it.
“Sorry,” I grunt, sitting back down with my heart still pounding like a jackhammer.
The man mutters something under his breath and hurries out the door, the bell above it jingling in his wake.
A hush lingers before the other diners go back to their meals, though they shoot me the occasional wary glance.
Aubree stares at me, eyes a little wide. “He was just…looking. Like, curious. It’s not like he attacked me.”
I drag a hand down my face. “I know,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “I’m on edge. Sorry.”
Her lips part, and I can see her searching for the right thing to say.
She ends up just nodding, her expression a mix of worry and understanding.
The tension between us is thick—equal parts fear, adrenaline, and something else I can’t quite name.
Maybe it’s the memory of the two of us in that hotel room last night, or the cabin before that, how close we came to crossing a line.
But I try to shut that thought out. Right now, I need to keep my focus on keeping her alive.
The waitress arrives at our table with two plates.
She sets a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of me, and a stack of pancakes in front of Aubree.
“Here you go, hon,” she says, clearly directing her kindness at Aubree instead of me.
Then she flicks her gaze my way, eyes narrowing. “Anything else I can get for you two?”
Aubree offers a tight smile. “We’re good, thanks.”
I dig into my eggs, though they taste like nothing.
My appetite’s shot, but I force the food down because I don’t know when we’ll get another decent meal.
I’m about to check my phone for messages when I remember I turned off Aubree’s phone earlier.
My phone’s still on, vibrating occasionally with texts from Dean, but hers is a dead brick in my jacket pocket—just another precaution.
If the person threatening her somehow tracked her phone’s signal, that’s a risk I won’t take.
She only manages a couple bites of pancake before pushing the plate away. “I’m sorry,” she says, fingers fidgeting with the napkin. “I just… I’m not hungry.”
“I get it,” I say. My voice is softer now. “We’ll get it to go if you want.”
She shakes her head. “I think I’m done.”
I wave the waitress over to get a box for Aubree’s leftover pancakes. She hustles behind the counter, and while we wait, Aubree leans forward. Her voice is low when she speaks. “How was that phone call earlier? Find out anything?”
I glance at my phone. A single new text from Dean reads: “Still digging, talk soon.” That’s all.
“He’s still working through your list,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
What I don’t mention is that I asked him to look into her step-father, too.
It’s just a hunch. But I’m not going to tell Aubree that yet, not until I have something concrete.
“Right,” she murmurs. “He told you he’s scanning their names, seeing if any of them have records or something?”
“Exactly.” I hold her gaze, trying to project confidence. “Between Dean and the rest of the Maddox crew, they’ll figure out if any of those folks pop up on a background check.”
Aubree exhales a shaky breath. The waitress returns with a small foam box, and I slip the pancakes into it, handing it back to Aubree.
We pay the bill quickly—cash, another precaution—and walk out to the parking lot.
The morning sun is bright, making us squint as we cross the cracked asphalt.
My truck is parked in a corner space, away from most of the other vehicles, but I still check around it like I’m expecting an ambush.
I open the passenger door, and Aubree climbs in, hugging the to-go box to her chest. She leans her head back against the seat, looking pale. I round the front of the truck, scanning the lot one last time before getting in. The engine rumbles to life as I pull out onto the main road.
We drive for a few minutes in silence. The diner fades into the rearview mirror, replaced by farmland and stretches of highway.
I’m waiting for her to speak, but she just stares out the window, lost in thought.
Finally, I clear my throat. “We’ve got a two-hour drive, give or take, to the safe house. Might be more with traffic.”
“Right,” she says absently.
I grip the steering wheel, letting the hum of the tires on the asphalt calm me down a little.
Once we’re on the highway, I figure it’s a good time to pick her brain.
We need details—every single threat, every weird email, every suspicious look.
That’s how we solve this. “Aubree,” I say, my voice cutting into the quiet.
“Tell me everything about the past few months. Start from when the threats began.”
She twists in the seat to face me, pulling her knees up under her. “Everything?” she asks, sounding uncertain.
I glance over briefly, then back to the road. “Yeah. Don’t leave anything out. The more I know, the better I can protect you.”
She nods, inhaling deeply. “Okay, so… it started about three months ago. It began with these weird emails to my work account—Slice Slice Baby has an email address for catering orders and stuff. The first one just said, ‘I’m watching you.’ No context, no signature.
I thought it was a prank, you know? The place is near a high school, so I figured some bored teenager was messing with me. ”
I keep my eyes on the road, letting her words wash over me. “When did you realize it wasn’t just a prank?”
She shifts, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.
“The second or third email. It said something like, ‘We don’t want you here. Leave now before something bad happens.’ Or something along those lines.
It was more direct, personal. It used the word ‘we,’ like there was more than one person.
I started to get nervous, but I still didn’t call the police or anything.
I told my mom, and she was the one who freaked out, telling me to hire security. I thought she was overreacting.”
I grunt. “Sounds like your mom has good instincts.”
She snorts softly. “Or just a lot of money and an overprotective streak. But yeah, maybe she was right.” She stares out the window for a moment, watching the farmland blur by.
“Anyway, the emails kept coming, about once a week. Always from different addresses—like whoever it was knew how to mask their IP or something. They’d say stuff like, ‘You don’t belong here, get out,’ or ‘You’ll be sorry you stayed.
’ I tried to ignore them, but then we started finding weird things. ”
“Weird things?” I prompt, my muscles tensing.
She nods. “Notes on the door of the shop. Sometimes they were taped to the glass, sometimes shoved under the mat. They were basically the same message: ‘Leave. You’re not wanted.’ But then it escalated more—like the brick.”
My jaw tightens at the memory of that shattered window, the note scrawled in black marker. “And in between the brick and the emails, there was nothing else?”
She blows out a breath. “There were phone calls. A few times I answered, and no one would speak. Just heavy breathing. I changed the shop’s number after that, which is why I didn’t think about it anymore. I guess I thought it’d go away.”
I’m quiet for a minute, letting the new information sink in. A heavy breather on the phone, menacing emails, a thrown brick—this is more than casual harassment. It’s personal. “You mentioned you fired someone around the same time all this started,” I say, recalling our conversation in the hotel.