Chapter 25
Snare
Izzy
Izzy poured her first cup of coffee, savoring the bitter warmth, and told herself she was fine. After all, the police had called the break-in a burglary, not a threat.
But she didn’t need proof. Every inch of it pointed to Jason. He wouldn’t do it himself—he never dirtied his own hands. He’d send someone else. Probably the guy in the Escalade who’d followed her before.
Luna brushed against her calf, tail flicking. Izzy bent to stroke the cat’s silky head, grateful for the soft, steady purr. We’re okay, baby, she murmured, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.
She’d barely slept—her mind replaying the break-in like a film she couldn’t shut off.
The thought that he was already under her skin made her furious.
He was trying to get in her head, to wield the same power over her that he’d had over Cate.
But he would find out soon enough—she was no pushover.
She wouldn’t cower. And she sure as hell wouldn’t run.
Down in the garage, her heels clicked across the cement.
The air carried a faint tang of gasoline and cold metal, her footsteps echoing through the cavernous space.
A man leaned against a silver sedan two rows over, scrolling through his phone.
She barely looked at him, but something in the air felt off—like a held breath she couldn’t see but could sense.
The fine hairs on her neck lifted, urging her to move faster.
Izzy kept her head down—avoiding eye contact, sticking to busy sidewalks, moving quickly from one errand to the next. Every so often, she felt it: a prickle at the base of her neck, the weight of unseen eyes. She told herself she was imagining it. She had to be.
That evening, she sat at her dining table, travel sites glowing across her laptop screen.
Flights to Asheville blurred past as she adjusted dates and times, looking for the sweet spot between affordable and discreet.
The refrigerator’s hum was the only sound, but every settling creak kept her shoulders tight.
She’d been mulling over a trip to North Carolina for weeks, but tonight’s phone call with Cate had turned it from a maybe into a must.
Cate’s voice had been soft but steady when she admitted it—she was falling for someone. Not just anyone…the local sheriff. Izzy could hear the warmth in her tone, could picture the shy smile Cate probably wore as she said his name.
Then Cate’s voice wavered. “After everything that’s happened, Iz…I can’t keep seeing him. It’s too dangerous. I’m ending it immediately.”
Izzy had nearly shouted into the phone. “Are you out of your mind? Cate, you deserve this. You deserve romance, happiness.”
“Iz, you know what’s at stake,” Cate argued. “If Jason—”
“No. We need to figure this out, and we can’t do it over Messenger or text. We need to talk face-to-face.”
By the time they hung up, Izzy had made up her mind. She’d take her two-week vacation and go to Sylva. They needed a plan—a real one—to turn chaos into something resembling normal.
Her eyes drifted to the sleek silver laptop in front of her.
It didn’t feel like hers. The old one—stolen in the break-in—had been part of her life for years.
Replacing it had been more than inconvenient; it had been agony.
The setup had taken forever, two full days of progress bars crawling as files trickled back from the cloud.
She rubbed her temple, staring at the faint scratches on the new keyboard.
Luna leapt onto the chair, settling beside her.
Izzy reached out absently, fingers brushing the cat’s fur as she whispered, Soon, sweetheart.
We’ll both get a break. Marla’s already promised to spoil you rotten while I’m gone. ”
A spiral notebook lay beside her, filled with notes and flight options—plans for her trip to Sylva.
Darcy
Darcy came home from the museum, the bag heavy on her shoulder as she kicked the door closed behind her. At first, everything seemed normal.
A faint, acrid scent hit her—cigarette smoke. Not just any smoke, but Jason’s brand. Sobranie Black Russian: black paper, gold tips. The smell was as sharp and arrogant as the man himself. Her stomach turned.
She scanned the cottage, nerves cinching. She crept to the kitchen and yanked the largest knife from the block, cursing herself for leaving her gun in the Jeep’s glove box.
Each step deliberate, she moved through the rooms—checking doors, windows, corners—anywhere someone could hide. Nothing. Everything looked untouched—the screws she’d driven into the windowsills still in place. Unease clung like cobwebs she couldn’t brush away.
Her hands shook as she pulled the phone from her bag.
Her fingers moved quickly, checking the emergency contacts she’d programmed months ago—Izzy, the sheriff’s office, and Emma—each one a reminder she wasn’t powerless.
She sat in the living room, phone clutched in her hand, counting each slow breath until the edge of panic dulled.
She forced herself to eat something, though each bite was tasteless.
Afterward, she showered, hoping the hot water would wash the tension away. But halfway through rinsing her hair, she froze, sure eyes were on her. A cold jolt rattled her. She yanked the shower curtain back. Empty.
Quickly, she toweled off. The mirror fogged with steam. When she wiped it clear, she thought she saw a shadow behind her—a figure, sharp and dark—but when she spun, the bathroom was empty. Just the slow drip of water.
Pull yourself together, she whispered.
She moved room to room again. Bolt. Latch. Lock.
In the kitchen, she poured another small drink, hoping the warmth would steady her. She sat in the living room, counting until the edge of panic dulled.
Eventually, she slid into bed. The sheets felt cool against her skin, exhaustion tugging at her eyelids. The alcohol blurred her thoughts, softening the edges of the room. Just as sleep began to take hold, she felt it—
The faintest dip in the mattress. Too deliberate to be her imagination.
A cold shock ran through her, freezing her in place.
Seconds stretched. And then—inch by inch—her eyes flicked open.
Jason.
He sat inches from her, perfectly composed, his tailored shirt crisp even in the shadows—that smile—smooth once, now wrong.
Her scream caught. She thrashed, but his hand clamped over her mouth—calm, controlled, suffocating.
She clawed at his hand—
And found nothing there.
No Jason. No weight.
Just her own sheets twisted around her as she bolted upright, damp hair clinging to her neck.
But the acrid tang of Sobranie smoke still clung to the air—stubborn, invasive, as though it had seeped into the walls. Her thoughts blurred, caught between nightmare and waking.
Even awake, she couldn’t shake it. Worse, the silence of the cottage felt too still.
Was it possible she’d dreamed him? Or had the dread followed her into daylight?
The smoke lingered—thin, invisible, patient. Watching.