Chapter 10
“I’m going in first.” Luke’s tone left no room for debate as he nudged the door wider and stepped inside, shoulders tight, gaze sharp.
Amayah didn’t argue with him.
He checked the house in quick, deliberate passes.
Amayah followed behind him, her eyes tracing the familiar shapes of home.
The couch pillows were still in place.
Her crocheted red and white blanket lay neatly folded.
The lamp glowed softly, casting gold across the far wall.
Everything looked . . . normal.
But somehow, she knew it wasn’t.
A quiet sense of wrongness prickled along her skin as she turned toward the narrow table beneath the window.
Her breath caught.
Her smallest Christmas tree—the ornamental one she’d set there just this morning, twinkling with white lights and simple wooden ornaments—was gone.
Her stomach dropped.
“What is it?” Luke appeared beside her.
“It was right here.” She pointed to the table. “My little tree. I just decorated it earlier today.”
Luke’s gaze swept the windows, the doorway, the edges of the room again. “You’re sure you didn’t leave it somewhere else?”
“I’m sure.” Her voice was certain as tears glimmered in her eyes. “And it certainly didn’t move itself.”
“This tree must mean a lot to you.”
“It was my grandma’s. Most of the stuff in my house I don’t care about. But that tree . . .”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes shifted toward the hallway, then back to the door behind them. “You saw someone earlier, didn’t you? While we were walking? Whoever he was, he scared you.”
“You saw him too?” She pressed her eyes closed before nodding. “There’s this man . . . I’ve seen him around a couple of times. Caught him staring at me. I think he’s a fan. He . . . well, to be honest, he gives me the creeps.”
His gaze narrowed. “Did you tell the police about him?”
“I reported him once, but the police said they couldn’t do anything, that there hadn’t been any real crime.” She shrugged. “They almost made me feel like I was being silly for reporting it. Like I was wasting their time.”
“That’s not okay.” Luke let out a slow breath, controlled but clearly unsettled. “What if this man has been coming into your home and taking mementos of you?”
A chill traced her spine. “You think someone would do that?”
“I think it’s a good possibility. People can be nuts.”
The realization settled heavy in her chest as she stared at the empty space where light and warmth had stood only hours before.
She drew in a shaky breath. She didn’t like the thought of any of this.
Despite everything, her stomach chose that moment to grumble.
Maybe doing something constructive would help get her mind off the trouble following her.
“I think I’ll make dinner,” she announced, her voice cracking slightly under the strain of her fears.
Her statement sounded almost absurd after everything that had happened. But she needed normal. A pan. A spoon. Something that behaved predictably. Something within her control.
“You should call the police,” Luke suggested, his voice low but serious.
“They won’t do anything.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue but then shut it again. Instead, he studied her a long moment, something weighing behind his eyes.
He finally asked, “You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be.” She heard the thinness in her assurance. “You can stay if you’d like.”
His gaze softened, but his posture didn’t. He remained alert. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay a while longer, just to be on the safe side.”
As he moved a fraction closer, the space between them warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heat clicking on.
The missing tree wasn’t the only thing that had shifted, she realized.
Something in the air felt different—alive, charged, as if an unseen thread had tightened between her and Luke.
Whatever that something was, it both thrilled and terrified her.
Amayah and Luke moved around each other with surprising ease as she gathered ingredients for chicken alfredo.
Slowly, the kitchen began filling with warmth and life.
Soft Christmas music drifted from the small speaker on the counter—an instrumental version of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.
Its gentle notes threaded through the air like something prayerful.
In the living room beyond, her Christmas tree glowed softly, white lights sparkling against glass ornaments and treasured handmade decorations, a quiet constellation reflected in the darkened windowpanes.
Luke rolled up the sleeves of his snowflake Christmas sweater and began slicing the chicken breasts into even strips. While he did that, Amayah measured cream and grated parmesan. The faint rasp of the cheese grater kept time with the music.
A pot of water hissed as it came to a boil. Garlic sizzled in foaming butter, releasing a rich, savory aroma that curled around them, warm and grounding.
The scent of comfort. Of normalcy.
They were making way too much, but that was okay. Leftovers were always a good idea.
“You’re surprisingly competent with a knife,” Amayah teased, watching the steady rhythm of Luke’s hands.
“Years of frozen dinners finally changed me,” he replied dryly, not even looking up. “It was either learn to cook or go broke eating out.”
She laughed, the sound soft and genuine, and something inside her loosened. Just a little. Working beside Luke felt natural. Steady. Safe.
Almost too safe.
He’d surprised her.
Not many men did anymore—not since Isaac.
A shadow of memory brushed past her thoughts, sharp as winter air. The last man Amayah had let get close to her had worn kindness like a costume. His words had been gentle, his gestures thoughtful, and he emanated a warmth that she mistook for trust.
But none of it had been real.
Not the way he acted.
Not the way he loved.
Not the version of himself he’d presented.
She’d essentially fallen for a man who didn’t exist.
When the mask finally slipped—when she saw the selfishness, manipulation, and lies—it had shattered something inside her she hadn’t known was breakable.
Luke wasn’t Isaac. She knew that.
And yet the ease between them—the comfort—made an old fear stir inside her, quiet but persistent. The fear of mistaking a facade for truth. The fear of being fooled again because she wanted to believe the best in someone.
She tried to shake the feelings off. Yet her gaze drifted toward the back hallway, then the front door, to the corners where unease lingered like a breath she couldn’t fully release.
Because safety, she’d learned, could feel real right up until the moment it wasn’t.
“Are your neighbor kids always outside like they were tonight?” Luke glanced briefly toward the darkened window as he slid the sliced chicken from the cutting board into the preheated pan.
“Always? No. But often.” Amayah adjusted the heat beneath the pan. “Their mom isn’t much on supervision. I try not to hover, but it’s hard to ignore when little ones are wandering after dark.”
“That’s too bad.” He stirred the chicken slowly, his movements careful, almost restrained. “It reminds me that I really have a lot to be thankful for.”
Amayah’s hand stilled briefly, fingers tightening on the wooden spoon. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I was adopted.”
Her eyes widened. “Were you?”
“My birth mom left me outside a fire station when I was a day old. It makes me realize just how different my life could have been.”
Luke was opening up, she realized. He’d shared something very personal.
This moment somehow felt pivotal.
And that awareness made her entirely happier than it should.