Chapter 10 Anna
Three weeks. It was enough time for the impossible to start feeling routine, for the sharp edges of our arrangement to wear smooth with daily use.
I catalogued these details not out of design, but because survival had always meant reading the room, anticipating moods. Now, the room was a penthouse, and the moods belonged to a man whose shifts dictated the weather of my world.
I recognized the domesticity of it all as the most dangerous development yet. A trap woven from ordinary moments.
Tonight, I was in the kitchen, a place I'd once only cleaned but now occasionally occupied. Daisy had been reluctant about carrots. So, with a paring knife, I was carefully carving a cucumber into a bumpy green boat, with carrot sailors and a bell pepper flag.
"It's the S.S. Veggie!" Daisy announced, her chin propped on the counter.
I was laughing, explaining Captain Carrot's daring adventures, when I heard the front door. The footsteps were the evening ones—heavier, deliberate. I didn't turn, but my spine straightened a fraction, my body attuned to his presence before my mind caught up.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase still in the other. His eyes swept the scene: Daisy on her stool, me with my ridiculous vegetable sculpture, the warm light, the smell of roasting chicken from the oven.
Something in his face shifted. The hard lines around his mouth softened.
"What's all this?" he asked. His voice wasn't arctic cold. It was curious. Almost warm.
"Anna made a boat!" Daisy declared, pointing. "So the carrots aren't scared to get eaten."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, genuine and unguarded. "Strategic," he said, his gaze meeting mine over Daisy's head. There was no malice in it. Just a shared acknowledgment of the absurd lengths we go to for children.
It made my heart ache.
Daisy scrambled down and ran to her backpack, pulling out a worksheet. "Look! I got a star! For reading!"
He set down his briefcase and crouched, taking the paper with a solemnity it deserved. "A gold star. That's excellent, bug." He looked up at me. "Thank you for helping her practice."
The gratitude was simple, direct. Not the grudging "adequately" of before. It felt real.
My cheeks warmed. "She did all the work. She's a natural."
We ate at the dining table, another new, unspoken habit. It had started with Daisy insisting I stay for a meal I'd helped prepare, and Jack, after a silent, tense moment, had pulled out a chair. Now, it happens more often than not.
Tonight, Jack turned to me. "Margaret called today. She said the attendance for your afternoon reading session has doubled since you started."
I nearly choked on my water. "She's being generous. The kids just like new voices."
"She said you reorganized the lending library by reading level. That you secured a donation from the bookstore on Elm Street." His tone was careful, but there was something underneath. Pride, maybe. Or approval.
I shrugged, pushing a pea around my plate. "I just talked to the owner. Told her about the foundation. She remembered Elena."
He was quiet for a moment, his fork paused midair. "Elena would have done the same. Charmed them into submission."
It was the first time he'd mentioned her so casually, without the accompanying shadow of pain. It felt like a step, a fragile bridge built over the hostility between us.
After dinner, he surprised me. "I'll handle bath time," he said, scooping a giggling Daisy into his arms.
I busied myself cleaning the kitchen, but I could hear Daisy's delighted shrieks echoing down the hall. At one point, Jack's low voice rumbled something, and Daisy's laughter peeled out, bright and unrestrained. The sound was foreign, beautiful music in this quiet place.
When he emerged, Daisy was in her pajamas, her hair a damp, dark cloud. She grabbed my hand. "Story time. You do the voices."
Jack followed us to her room. He didn't leave.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as I settled into the armchair and Daisy climbed into my lap.
The book was The Paper Bag Princess. I gave the dragon a pompous roar and the princess a voice full of clever determination. Daisy was entranced.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack's posture soften. The harsh line of his mouth relaxed. He was watching us with something that looked almost like contentment.
When the princess told Ronald he was a bum and skipped off into the sunset, Daisy cheered softly. But her eyes were heavy.
"Can you stay till I sleep?" she murmured, already snuggling down.
I looked at Jack. He gave a single nod and came into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing us. So we sat there, me in the chair with a drowsy Daisy, Jack on the bed watching us. It almost felt like a small family.
When Daisy's breathing deepened, I carefully eased her into bed. Jack pulled the covers up to her chin, his hand lingering on her hair. We tiptoed out.
In the hallway, the intimacy of the moment lingered, thickening the air between us.
"I have some foundation reports to review," he said, his voice low. "But you're welcome to stay. If you want. The silence isn't so..." He trailed off, searching for the word.
"Heavy?" I offered.
"Yes."
My heart did a funny little flip. "I could make tea."
A frail smile touched his lips. "That would be good."
Fifteen minutes later, I was setting a steaming mug of chamomile on his desk.
I took the armchair across from him, a stack of donation lists in my lap.
We worked in a silence that was, for the first time, genuinely comfortable.
Not the silence of a conflict, but the silence of two people focused on a shared purpose.
At one point, I looked up to find him watching me, his chin resting on his steepled fingers.
"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
He didn't look away. "This is strange," he said quietly. "You being here. Like this. It feels..."
"Normal?" I whispered, giving voice to the dangerous thought.
"Yes." The admission seemed to cost him something. His shoulders slumped, then he looked at me again. "And that's the strangest part of all. That it doesn't feel wrong. Not anymore."
We held each other's gaze, the air between us charged with the truth of it. This was becoming normal. Necessary, even. And we both knew it couldn't last, which made every second unbearably precious.
Another hour passed. My tea was gone, his mug empty. I stood to collect them. As I reached for his mug, my fingers brushed against his where they still rested on the desk.
The contact was electric.
A jolt shot through me. Not just through my arm, but my entire body, a current that made my breath catch and my pulse spike. My eyes flew to his.
He hadn't moved his hand. His fingers, warm and firm, turned slightly, deliberately, grazing the sensitive skin of my palm. Not quite holding, but not letting go. His thumb traced a slow line across my wrist, again right where my pulse hammered frantically.
He could feel it.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. I could feel the callus on his thumb, the heat of his skin seeping into mine. His breathing had deepened, slowed. His eyes were dark, intense, fixed on where our hands touched.
I should pull away. I should run. This was Jack Spencer. The man who'd surveilled me. Who blamed me. Who should hate me.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only feel the warmth spreading up my arm, the dangerous, impossible hope blooming in my chest.
Then, the sharp sound of a key in the front door lock shattered the moment.
We jerked apart like we'd been burned. Jack's hand became a fist on the desk. I stumbled back, clutching the mugs.
Mrs. Rosa bustled into the hallway. "So sorry! I forgot my recipe book!"
Jack cleared his throat, his voice rough. "It's fine, Rosa."
Mrs. Rosa peeked into the office. Her eyes widened just a fraction as she took in the scene, me standing too close to the desk, both of us flushed, the tension thick enough to cut.
"I was just leaving," I blurted, my voice too high.
I fled to the kitchen, dumped the mugs in the sink, and grabbed my bag. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped my keys.
"Anna." Jack's voice stopped me at the service entrance. He was in the hallway, his posture rigid, the moment of softness utterly gone. But his eyes held a storm I couldn't decipher. "Drive safe."
It was a dismissal. But it was also something else that I couldn’t quite place.
"Goodnight, Jack," I managed, and escaped into the elevator.
In the car, I pressed my trembling palm against the cool steering wheel. The skin still tingled. The shift was undeniable now. It was no longer just about Daisy, or the foundation, or even guilt and grief.
Something new and fragile and deeply perilous was growing between us.
At my apartment, I leaned against the closed door, trying to calm my racing heart. My phone buzzed.
A text from Jack.
Jack
Thank you. For staying. For all of it.
The words felt monumental. They acknowledged the shared quiet, the unspoken truce. My thumb hovered over the screen.
Anna
Anytime.
I hit send, a stupid, small smile forming on my lips.
The phone buzzed again immediately.
This time, the screen didn't show Jack's name. It said: Unknown Number.
The smile died instantly. Cold, familiar dread. It felt older and deeper than any feeling Jack could evoke. It poured into my veins, turning them to ice.
Unknown Number again, but this time it wasn’t Jack.
My thumb swiped the screen, numb and trembling.
The message contained only two words:
Unknown Number
Miss me?
The phone fell from my grasp, clattering onto the linoleum. The sound was distant; I was elsewhere mentally. My ears were ringing. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint.
No. No no no no no.
It couldn't be. He was behind bars. Fifteen years. It was a wrong number. A spam text. A sick coincidence.
But I knew. The certainty was bone-deep, instinctual. The same certainty I'd felt in that parking lot two years ago when Carter had looked at me with cold, calculating eyes and told me he'd destroy me if I told anyone what happened.
My legs gave out. I slid down the door, my back scraping against the wood. I wrapped my arms around my knees, but the trembling was too deep, too violent to contain. My breath came in short, sharp gasps—not enough air, never enough air.
The warm, safe feeling from Jack's touch was gone. Replaced by the phantom smell of bourbon. The blur of streetlights. The sickening thud. Carter's voice, calm and venomous: You breathe a word, and your life is over.
A sound escaped me, high and thin. A whimper I couldn't control.
The phone lay on the floor, screen still lit. As I watched through tears as another message appeared.
Unknown Number
We have unfinished business.
The scream that had been trapped in my throat finally broke free, a soundless shriek of pure terror.
The monster wasn't just a memory.
He was a text message in the dark.
And I needed to figure out how he was able to reach me.