Chapter Twelve Ella
Chapter Twelve
Ella
My heartbeat vibrates through my entire body. It’s loudest in my ears.
It turns into deafening drums when the guy pulls out his phone and his lips begin to move.
Who is he calling?
Tiero?
I don’t bother putting my sneakers back on. I scoop them up, throw them on top of my pile in the cart, and bolt for the checkout. Curious glances follow me. I must look like I’m being chased by hornets, or a bear.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
The guy’s eyes are still on me.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
Cat and Claudette are already waiting near the registers, watching a tennis match playing on a television mounted above the counter.
How did they do this so fast? I don’t ask, though. One look at my face is enough.
“What happened?” Cat asks, instantly alert.
Her gaze sweeps past me, scanning reflections, exits, people.
“There’s an Italian-looking guy. He’s been following me.”
Both of them turn toward the aisle I came from.
Cat’s expression doesn’t change. She studies him the way a chess player studies a board, not rushing, not panicking.
“It’s probably nothing,” she says quietly. “Let’s just get out of here.”
She steps in beside me and starts unloading the contents of our carts onto the conveyor belt, her body angled slightly between me and the store. Claudette peers after the guy for a beat longer.
“He doesn’t have the vibe of a thug,” she says.
“Well, you also thought the left door on the ship had the wrong vibe when we should have taken it,” I snap.
The words come out sharper than I intend. My chest is tight, my nerves stretched thin, and Claudette happens to be closest.
She doesn’t bristle. She never does. She just lifts one shoulder in a shrug, unbothered.
“Umm… these shoes don’t scan,” the checkout girl says, breaking through my spiral.
She’s holding up my sneakers.
I stare at them, pulse racing. Can’t she tell they’re worn? Flustered, I kick off the boots and swap them for my shoes.
“Sorry. I forgot I was wearing them,” I lie.
When I turn back, my eyes search the crowd.
“He disappeared into the store,” Cat says calmly as she taps her card.
She glances once more toward the aisles. “I think he just liked the look of you.”
Is it really that simple?
I hate that I can’t tell anymore. That my instincts feel scrambled.
Crap, I see danger everywhere now.
Still unsettled and looking over my shoulder, we each grab a few bags and head for the car.
We didn’t lock it because, of course, we couldn’t. We have no key.
Cat opens the driver’s door, reaches across, and finds the boot release by touch alone. We dump everything inside.
“Let’s get food and toiletries next,” she says. “We’ll stay together this time.”
I nod, exhaling for what feels like the first time in minutes.
As we walk back inside the mall, Catalina’s gaze drifts to a television mounted in a window display. The tennis match she’d been watching earlier while waiting for me is still on, and she stops, mesmerized, the urgency from earlier seemingly forgotten.
The rally stretches impossibly long, both players refusing to give ground.
“I take it you like tennis,” I say when she doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.
She hums under her breath when the American loses the point. “That was a crucial set. Momentum like that usually decides the match.”
Claudette grins. “You sound invested.”
Cat shrugs. “I like patterns. Tennis is all patterns. People think it’s about strength, but it’s really about pressure and decision-making. Who cracks first.”
She tilts her head, reading the scoreboard. “Jonah’s got this though,” she murmurs.
“Are you a fan?” I ask.
I’m not into tennis, but even I’ve heard of Jonah Linford. He’s known for his single-minded, ruthless attitude on court. More machine than human. Driven. Rarely showing emotion. He’s not my cup of tea.
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Cat says, blushing.
“Really?” I tease. That reaction alone gives her away. “He’s damn fine-looking, though. Blond hair, steel-blue eyes, and the toned body of an athlete.” I fan myself exaggeratedly. “Even I can appreciate that, and I don’t care about tennis.”
“I like it when he changes shirts,” Claudette adds with a grin.
Cat clears her throat. “I respect his discipline. His focus. He’s always trying to improve, to be the best version of himself.”
Claudette and I exchange a look, and Cat’s blush deepens.
“Right. We better get moving,” she declares, already heading toward the supermarket.
Biting back smiles, we trail after her.
My eyes scan the crowd as we each grab a basket and move quickly through the aisles. My nerves hum beneath my skin the entire time. Not until we’re back on the road and the store shrinks in the rearview mirror do my shoulders relax a fraction.
Even then, my gaze keeps flicking to passing cars, to tree lines, to movement at the edges.
Because once you believe you’ve been seen, it’s impossible to feel invisible again.