Chapter 1
chapter one
Sadie
The first week after I broke up with Ryan, I thought maybe he'd actually listened. Maybe he'd finally gotten the message and moved on with his life. I was so fucking wrong.
It started with flowers. Red roses delivered to my apartment with a card that read I'm sorry.
I love you. Please give me another chance.
I threw them in the dumpster without a second thought.
Then came the texts, apologetic at first. I was wrong, I miss you, can we talk?
But soon they turned insistent. You're making a mistake. We belong together. You know we do.
I blocked his number, then he got a new one.
Next came the emails. Long, rambling messages about how much he loved me, how he'd changed, how no one would ever care about me the way he did.
I set up filters, but he kept creating new accounts.
The subject lines got darker: You can't run from this.
I know where you are. You'll come back to me.
Then he started showing up everywhere I was.
At the grocery store, pretending it was a coincidence.
At my gym, suddenly a new member. Outside my apartment building at odd hours, just standing there on the sidewalk, staring up at my window.
Every time I spotted him, my stomach dropped and my hands started shaking.
He'd smile like we were still together, like I hadn't told him to stay the hell away from me.
"Sadie! Hey!" he'd call out, jogging over like we were old friends. "Funny running into you here."
It wasn't funny. It was never funny.
I started changing my routines. Different grocery store. Different gym. Different coffee shop. But somehow he always found me. A text would come through minutes after I arrived somewhere new: Saw you at the café on Fifth. You look beautiful today.
How did he know? Was he following me? Had he put some kind of tracker on my phone or my car?
The notes started appearing under my apartment door.
Handwritten, sometimes sweet, I dream about you every night, sometimes cruel, You think you're better than me?
You're nothing without me., and sometimes just...
wrong. I can smell your perfume in the hallway.
I know when you come and go. I'm always watching.
Four months. Four months of this relentless, suffocating presence. Four months of looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. Four months of jumping at every notification, every knock on the door, every shadow in my peripheral vision.
I kept telling myself it would stop. That he'd get bored and move on. Instead, it only got worse.
The dead flowers appeared on my doorstep one morning, the same red roses he'd sent at the beginning, now rotted and black, tied with a note. If I can't have you, no one will.
That's when I knew I had to do something.
The police station smells like stale coffee and industrial cleaner.
I sit across from Officer Daniels, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a wedding ring worn thin.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone, showing him the screenshots I've been collecting.
Texts. Emails. Photos of the notes Ryan left under my door.
"He's everywhere," I say, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to stay calm. "He shows up at my gym, my grocery store, outside my apartment. He's been doing this for four months and it's getting worse. I need help. I need a restraining order or, or something."
Officer Daniels scrolls through my phone with an expression that makes my stomach sink. Bored. Skeptical. Like he's heard this story a thousand times before and decided long ago it wasn't worth his energy.
"Has he threatened you?" he asks without looking up.
"He sent me dead flowers with a note that said 'if I can't have you, no one will.' That's a threat, isn't it?"
"It's concerning," he says slowly, handing my phone back. "But it's not an explicit threat of violence. Has he tried to break into your apartment? Assaulted you? Damaged your property?"
"No, but…”
"Then there's nothing we can do right now.
" He leans back in his chair, folding his arms. "Look, I get that this is frustrating.
But legally, he hasn't done anything we can arrest him for.
Sending flowers and texts isn't a crime.
Being in the same public places as you isn't a crime.
Unless he makes a direct threat or physically harms you, our hands are tied. "
I stare at him, disbelief and rage warring in my chest. "So I'm supposed to wait until he hurts me? That's what you're telling me?"
"I'm telling you to document everything. Keep records of every interaction. If he escalates, come back and we'll see what we can do." He shrugs, like this is just another Tuesday. "But right now? He's just a persistent ex-boyfriend. They usually move on eventually."
Eventually.
I leave the station in a daze, hands numb, chest tight. The afternoon sun feels too bright, the traffic too loud. I sit in my car in the parking lot and stare at the steering wheel, trying to force air into my lungs.
The system won't protect me. No one is coming to save me.
I'm on my own.
I make it back to my apartment and lock the door behind me, sliding the deadbolt and the chain. My hands are still shaking. I lean against the door and slide down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. Four months of this nightmare, and the police just told me to wait and see what happens.
My phone buzzes. Another text from a number I don't recognize.
Unknown: Did you really think the cops could help you? You're mine, Sadie. You've always been mine.
The panic hits like a freight train. My chest tightens, my vision blurs, and I can't breathe. He knows. He knows I went to the police. How does he know? Is he watching me right now?
I scramble to my feet and run to the window, yanking the curtain aside. The street below is empty except for a dark sedan parked across the street. I can't see inside, but I know, I know, he's there.
I can't stay here. I can't do this anymore.
I grab my laptop with shaking hands and open a browser. Cabins for rent. I need to get away. Somewhere he can't find me. Somewhere quiet and safe where I can finally breathe.
Silver Lake is six hours away, a small mountain town I've never been to, never even mentioned to anyone. It's perfect.
I book the first long-term rental I find: a cabin on Cedar Ridge Road overlooking the lake. I don't even read the full description. I just enter my credit card information and hit confirm.
Then I start packing. I throw clothes into my suitcase, toiletries into a bag, my laptop and chargers into my backpack. I work frantically, heart pounding, glancing at the window every few seconds like he might appear there. I don't have a plan beyond get out. I don't have time for one.
By the time the sun sets, my car is packed and that dark sedan has been gone for thirty minutes.
I take one last look at my apartment and feel nothing but relief to be leaving it behind.
I drive through the night, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, checking my rearview mirror constantly.
Every pair of headlights behind me makes my heart race. Every shadow feels like a threat.
But as the miles stretch between me and my old life, something in my chest starts to loosen. He doesn't know where I'm going. He can't follow me this time. I'm going to be okay.
I ease my foot off the gas as the road curves one last time and Silver Lake unfolds in front of me like a damn painting.
Dawn light glints off the water, turning everything golden, pine trees crowding the shores, little wooden docks jutting into the lake, the quaint main street lined with mom-and-pop shops just starting to open for the day.
My chest loosens for the first time in months. This is it. My fresh start.
For real this time.
I pull up to the small grocery store on the edge of town, stomach growling after the long drive.
The place is charming in that small-town way, wooden beams, handwritten signs advertising fresh bread and local honey, the warm scent of coffee and baked goods drifting out the open door.
I grab a basket and start filling it with the basics: coffee, eggs, bread, some fruit, and a bottle of cheap red wine to celebrate my new chapter.
I'm reaching for a carton of milk on the top shelf, stretching on my tiptoes, when I feel eyes on me.
I turn around and nearly forget how to breathe.
Standing at the end of the aisle is one of the most ruggedly handsome men I've ever seen.
He looks like he belongs on the cover of a mountain magazine, tall and broad-shouldered, built from years of real work rather than gym sessions.
His dark brown hair is cut short with silver threading through the temples, and his hazel eyes are intense.
A deep scowl seems permanently etched on his face.
The Silver Lake Fire Department logo is stitched on the sleeve of his t-shirt.
He doesn't smile. He just stands there watching me struggle. "Need help?" he finally grunts, his voice low and rough, like he's annoyed I even exist in his aisle.
I blink, caught off guard. "I've got it, thanks though." I stretch higher, but my fingers still barely brush the carton. Before I can try again, he steps forward, reaches up with one massive arm, and grabs the milk like it's nothing. He drops it into my basket without asking.
"There," he mutters. "You were about to knock the whole damn shelf down."
I stare at him. "I said I had it."
He crosses his arms and looks me up and down. "You're new in town."
"I am," I say, lifting my chin. "Is there a problem with that?"
His scowl deepens. "Most people who move up here are running from something. You wouldn't happen to be the one renting the cabin off Cedar Ridge Road, would you?"
I blink. "Yeah... that's me. How did you know that?"