Chapter 7 #2
“Ashley,” I said quietly, “there’s no one out here.”
“That’s because he left,” she said quickly. “He knew you were coming, he must have heard your car.”
I kept looking, because if I stopped looking, I’d have to acknowledge how wrong all of this felt.
After a few more useless minutes, I returned to her doorway.
“I don’t see any footprints or any signs of a break-in. No one is lurking,” I said. “I really don’t think anyone is or was here.”
Her chin trembled. “You think I’m lying.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
For a second, she actually looked small, scared, fragile, on the edge of unraveling. And then, like a flicker between two frames, something sharper flashed behind her expression. Something calculating. But it vanished quickly, replaced by quivering lips.
“I wouldn’t make this up,” she whispered.
I swallowed a sigh. “You have to get this sorted. I have a life now without you, and I can’t be this person for you.”
She stepped closer, eyes shining. “I know you’re busy, but I don’t know who else I can turn to. You’re the only one who helps.”
The words hit like a hook embedding in the softest part of me.
I hated how it worked.
I hated even more that it worked because of who I used to be, because once upon a time, when everything in my life felt hollow and heavy, I needed validation anywhere I could get it.
Ashley had been there then.
And she hadn’t forgotten.
“Do you want me to look at the package?” I asked, reluctantly.
She nodded instantly. Too instantly.
I followed her inside, keeping a safe distance, scanning her windows, her locks, her balcony. There was nothing. No threat. No signs of forced entry or disturbance.
On her table sat the package. I opened it quickly, hoping it was just some random item she had bought and forgot about, but that hope quickly died.
On top was a note.
From your secret admirer.
My chest tightened before I even touched what was underneath.
I lifted a piece of tissue paper, just to uncover a mound of photos underneath. Ashley cooking in her kitchen, the photo obviously taken from outside. Ashley walking in a park. Ashley drinking a coffee on a bench. Ashley… asleep in her bed.
“Oh my god, is that me?” She shouted.
It was hard to admit that this was real, and that I was way out of my depth.
“Callum, you have to believe me now. I am so scared!” She cried out.
“Ashley, I am sorry. I guess I should have believed you. I wish I could help, but this guy is something else. You need serious help, from people who are actually equipped. You need to take this to the police, this has to be the evidence they need to convince them to do something.” I said, guilt weighing on me from lying to Ginny, denying Ashley any more help or comfort.
She didn’t acknowledge what I said, and instead hovered behind me like I was the last barrier between her and collapse.
And when she reached out, barely brushing my sleeve, my entire body went rigid.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I stepped away before the words could stick.
“I need to head out,” I said gently. “Ginny’s waiting. You go and call the police.”
Ashley's mouth tightened, disappointment flickering through her expression before she masked it with fear again.
“Text me?” she pleaded. “So I know you got home safe.”
It was a strange request, the kind a partner makes, not an old ex.
“No,” I said.
I left her apartment before she could ask for more.
I didn’t text her.
Instead, I sat in my car with my hands braced on the steering wheel, heart pounding with something too tangled to name.
Why the hell had I gone there?
By the time I finally pulled onto the road, another message glowed on my screen:
I knew you’d show up. You always do.
I deleted it.
I deleted every message.
And still, still, the weight of them lingered, heavy and wrong, as I drove home to the woman I loved, carrying the first real secret I’d ever kept from her.
· · ─ ·?· ─ · ·
Four Years Ago
Ava walked out of the building like the day had chewed her up and forgot to spit her out, shoulders tight, pace clipped, eyes unfocused in that way she got when she was replaying every conversation and blaming herself for all of them.
She didn’t even see me at first. She just kept moving, like if she stopped, the stress would finally catch her and drag her under.
I stepped away from my car and lifted the picnic basket into her line of sight.
She halted. Blinked once. Twice.
“Callum… what is this?”
“Emergency recovery protocol,” I said, keeping my voice calm, steady, the opposite of her frayed edges. “You’ve hit maximum capacity. Doctor’s orders.”
“I don’t remember appointing you as my doctor,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead.
“That’s because you’re delirious from stress,” I deadpanned. “Come on.”
I didn’t give her time to argue. I just guided her around the side of the building to the little strip of grass no one ever used, the one spot where the late-afternoon sun always fell warm and low and forgiving.
I’d scoped it out earlier. Spread the blanket.
Made sure it would feel like a separate world, even if it was only ten steps from her office door.
Her eyes widened a fraction when she saw everything laid out: pasta still warm in its container, fresh fruit, garlic break, and the sparkling lemonade she always denied liking while simultaneously stealing sips of mine.
“Callum,” she whispered, like the word alone might be enough to undo her.
I opened the basket fully, letting the smells drift up between us. “Sit.”
She did, slowly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to. And then, when she finally lowered herself onto the blanket, something in her posture eased, just barely, just enough for me to notice that the armor she wore all day had cracked at the edges.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly, tracing her fingers along the rim of a container, like she was afraid it might disappear.
“You didn’t have to survive whatever fresh hell your day was,” I replied. “But you did. And this is the part where you get to breathe.”
A tiny, exhausted laugh left her. She pressed her palms against her eyes, then let her hands fall to her lap. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start with this.”
I handed her the lemonade.
She took it, exhaled, and after a long moment said, “I really needed this.”
“I know.”
Her gaze lifted, meeting mine in a rare moment of stripped-back honesty, no sarcasm, no forced bravado. Just her, tired and real.
“I didn’t ask you to do this,” she murmured.
“You don’t have to ask.” I shifted closer, keeping my voice low, steady, something she could lean on if she wanted to. “I’ll always make time for you.”
Something softened in her face then, not a smile, not entirely, but the beginning of one. A quiet acceptance that I was here, that I meant it, and that she wasn’t alone in whatever fight she’d been carrying all day.
She leaned back on her hands, finally letting the warmth of the sun touch her face.
And for the first time since she’d walked out that door, she looked like she could breathe again.