29. Flick
Flick
I sit at my kitchen table thinking about the photos I turned into the police station a few days ago.
They’d been polite but honest—without a clear image of who dropped them, there wasn’t much to go on.
Just another dead end in this nightmare that’s consumed my life for weeks.
Unless I can figure out who the initials “J.R.” belong to.
My gaze shifts to the paper and I stare at the initials I scrawled there. J.R. The letters blur as I trace them with my pen, something nagging at the edges of my memory.
“John? Jack?” I mutter, tapping the pen against the table. The rhythm matches my racing heartbeat. “Jennifer? No, that doesn’t feel right.”
Cat jumps onto the table, batting at my pen with determined paws.
I absently scratch behind her ears while my mind churns through possibilities.
The kitchen smells like wet wool and vinegar from this morning’s dyeing session—a batch of sunset oranges that turned out perfect despite my distracted state.
J.R. Why does it feel so familiar?
“Jaquelyn?” I try the name out loud, but it tastes wrong on my tongue.
Then it hits me like ice water down my spine.
Jenna. Jenna Rivers.
The pen slips from my fingers, clattering against the floor. Cat startles, her tail puffing up as she leaps away.
“Oh my God.” The words come out as barely a whisper.
My hands shake as I grab my phone, scrolling through months of messages. There she is—JennaR_Fiber Arts. My “superfan.” The one who bought every colorway, who gushed over my techniques, who I’d thrown in extra skeins for because she seemed so genuinely supportive of small businesses.
Love your latest batch! The way you capture morning light in fiber is pure magic.
Can’t wait to see what you’re working on next!
Your talent deserves so much recognition. You’re going to be huge one day.
The messages stop abruptly two weeks ago. When Sebastian blocked the account. Right when the creepy package arrived.
My chest tightens—not the pericarditis this time, just pure fear. I press my palm against my sternum anyway, a habit now. The steroids have been working, keeping the inflammation at bay, but stress isn’t helping.
I dial Sebastian’s number with trembling fingers. He picks up on the first ring.
“I know who it is.” The words tumble out before I can even say hello.
“Tell me.” No hesitation, no questions about what I’m talking about. He just knows.
“Jenna Rivers. She’s been buying my yarn for months. We’ve exchanged dozens of messages. I thought she was just enthusiastic about my work, but Sebastian, the timing?—”
“I’m coming to get you. Give me fifteen minutes.” I hear rustling in the background, probably him already grabbing his keys. “We’ll go to the station together.”
“You don’t have to leave work. I can drive myself?—”
“Flick.” His voice softens. “Let me be there for you. Please.”
The simple request breaks through my automatic walls. This is what we’ve been working on—me accepting help, him offering without taking over.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“I’m on my way now.”
After we hang up, I pace the living room, Cat weaving between my legs. My hands ache from clenching them, and I force myself to flex my fingers, working out the stiffness. The yarn I’d been planning to skein sits abandoned on my swift, a deep teal that now makes my stomach turn.
Teal. Like the cashmere she sent.
Through the window, I spot Sebastian’s car turning onto my street fifteen minutes later. I grab my purse and meet him at the door, not wanting to waste a second.
He’s still in his scrubs, a smear of something that might be blood on his sleeve. His hair sticks up at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it. But his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—are steady and calm as they find mine.
“Come here.” He opens his arms, and I fall into them without hesitation.
His embrace is solid, grounding. I breathe in his familiar scent, my racing heart slows a fraction.
“It’ll be over soon,” he murmurs against my hair. “The police will find her.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “What if they can’t? What if she’s already left the island? What if?—”
“Hey.” He cups my face gently, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “One step at a time. First, we tell Detective Harlow what you know. Then we go from there.”
I nod, drawing strength from his certainty. “You’re right. I’m just...”
“Scared. I know. Anyone would be.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Ready?”
The drive to the station passes in a blur of Sebastian’s steady presence and my jumbled thoughts. He keeps one hand on mine the entire way, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my palm. I focus on that touch, letting it anchor me.
Detective Harlow meets us in the lobby, his expression serious but kind. He’s younger than I expected when I first met him—maybe early forties, with prematurely gray temples that make him look distinguished rather than old.
“Ms. Patel, Dr. Blum. Come on back to my office.”
The small room smells like coffee and old paper. I settle into the worn chair across from his desk, Sebastian taking the seat beside me. Our hands stay linked.
“Tell me everything,” Detective Harlow says, pen poised over a fresh notepad.
I pull out my phone, showing him the message history with Jenna. My voice wavers at first, but grows stronger as I explain the pattern—her excessive enthusiasm, the personal details she somehow knew. How the timing of blocking the account lines up with the package.
“She bought my Sunrise Dreams colorway six times,” I say, scrolling through order histories. “I thought she was giving them as gifts or maybe reselling, but now...”
“Now you think she was collecting them,” the detective finishes.
I nod, my throat tight.
Sebastian squeezes my hand as I show Detective Harlow everything—every message, every order, every interaction I can remember. The detective takes notes in neat handwriting, occasionally asking clarifying questions.
“This is excellent work, Flick.” He sets down his pen. “With this information, we should be able to track her down quickly. I’ll need copies of all these messages and her shipping information.”
“Whatever you need.” I forward him screenshots as we speak, my fingers steady now that we have a plan.
“In the meantime, continue taking precautions. Don’t go anywhere alone, keep your cameras active, and call immediately if you see or hear anything suspicious.”
“She will,” Sebastian says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Detective Harlow’s lips quirk in what might be approval. “Good. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have something.”
Walking out of the station, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Not safe yet—but hopeful. The afternoon sun warms my face, and I tip my head back to soak it in.
“Feel better?” Sebastian asks, watching me with soft eyes.
“Getting there.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you for dropping everything to be here.”
“Always.” He checks his watch. “I need to head back for afternoon appointments, but let’s get you home first. I’ll come by tonight as soon as we close. We’ll make dinner, watch terrible reality TV, pretend everything’s normal for a few hours.”
“That sounds perfect.” I rise on my toes to kiss him, not caring that we’re standing in the police station parking lot. His lips are warm and sure against mine, a promise of all the normal nights we’ll have once this is over.
Sebastian drops me back off at home and I throw myself into work—the one thing that still makes sense. The rhythmic motion of winding skeins soothes my scattered nerves. I post a few finished colorways on my website, careful not to include any personal details or location markers.
By the time my hands start their familiar ache, shadows stretch long across my studio.
I clean up slowly, movements deliberate to avoid aggravating the inflammation.
The sun sets earlier now that winter’s approaching, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that would make beautiful yarn colors.
If I can ever look at yarn the same way again.
In the kitchen, I pull out ingredients for chili—Sebastian’s favorite. The simple act of chopping onions and browning beef grounds me. This is normal. This is safe. The cornbread batter comes together easily, and soon the house smells like comfort and home.
I’m sliding the cornbread into the oven when a soft knock freezes me mid-motion.
Sebastian always texts. Always. My phone sits silent on the counter.
The security camera should have alerted me to movement, but there’s been no notification. My mouth goes dry as I ease the oven closed, trying not to make a sound.
Another knock, barely louder than the first.
I creep toward the front door, avoiding the windows. Through the peephole, I see dark hair, a bowed head. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“Who is it?” My voice cracks despite my effort to sound calm.
“It’s Jenna.” The response is light, casual. Too casual. “I just want to talk.”
The room tilts. I press my back against the wall, phone already in my hand. My fingers shake as I type:
Jenna is here at my house. Call the police.
“Jenna... what are you doing here?” I manage, buying time.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Her tone shifts, hurt creeping in. “And today I got a call from the police asking about stalking you. That’s not very nice after everything I’ve done for you.”
Done for me? Bile rises in my throat. This woman has turned my life into a nightmare, and she thinks she’s done me favors? She’s delusional.
“I’m not feeling well.” The lie comes out thin, unconvincing. “Maybe we can talk another day.”
The doorknob rattles. I jump back, my hip hitting the side table. A picture frame wobbles but doesn’t fall.
“I really think we should talk now.” All pretense of friendliness disappears from her voice. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”
It’ll be quick? What will?
My legs shake, but I force myself to stay upright. “I think you should leave, Jenna. The police are on their way.”