A chill sweeps through my body, and I whip my head up and look around frantically. My eyes fall to the ground, but our footprints from last night still crisscross the lawn in every direction, so I have no way to identify fresh tracks.
I swallow and read the message again. Something about it feels off. For one, the handwriting isn’t Dennis’s—I know because I found (and burned) a box of dirty love letters from him under my mom’s bed after they took her to hospice.
But still, who else would write this? Who else would use that nickname? Maybe he’s disguising his handwriting.
I ball up the letter, choking back a frustrated scream. I should be spooked, but all I feel is anger. I’m so tired of looking over my shoulder. And where would I go that’s safe? Dennis knows too much about me. He knows about Anna and our place in Brighton. He knows about the pub, and Marcus and Seb’s apartment. He even knows about Lakeside Cinema and where Charlie, Link, and Trey live. If I go to any of those places, I’mputting someone in jeopardy, which is why I came here in the first place.
I grit my teeth, and I hear Brantley’s words in my head as I squeeze the paper in my hand so hard that the jagged edges bite into my palm:“I want us to talk about everything. Whatever you’re hiding about Dennis, you need to tell us. We need to be able to protect you.”
What if I need to protectyou?
I hate that Dennis is still controlling me, but fuck that, I won’t run scared anymore, and I certainly won’t make anyone else I love a target.
My mind races, and a plan takes root in my head—one that I’ve been thinking about since my conversation with Seb about Micah. This is about so much more than money and my stepfather’s debt. As I always suspected, I’m an obsession to him—like my mom was before me. Dennis has blackmailed me for years, always threatening my friends and family if I ever told anyone what he had done. Well, I have one card left up my sleeve, and I’m done being his victim.
The renewed resolve gives me strength, and I shove the note in my coat pocket and send a quick text. Then, I walk toward the cabin.
The guys are on high alert the second I throw open the door and stomp inside. Seb is just putting scrambled eggs and bacon on plates, and B closes the fridge juggling ketchup and a container of orange juice.
“What’s going on?” Seb asks, eyeing me with a deep frown.
“He knows.” I slap the note down on the counter and smooth it out.
Seb picks it up, and B pauses to read over his shoulder. Sebastian looks up at me, his eyes livid.
“Shit,” B mutters. “Was the creepy asshole watching us fuck?”
“Sounds like it.” Nausea crawls through my stomach at thethought, and I realize that he may have been here the whole time when I consider the evidence in the tractor.
“Did you call Detective Lin?”
I shake my head. “I need to figure out somewhere else to go first.”
“We,” Brantley emphasizes. “Weneed to figure out someplace to go.”
I sigh.
“Fi,” Seb starts, leaning across the counter. “What the heck is going on? This seems like it’s about more than your inheritance and paying off some debt.” B nods along with him, taking a large bite of bacon. “This note reads like a stalker.”
I avoid his gaze and his comment as I sit on a stool with a frustrated huff. “I don’t even know where to go next. I thought this place was foolproof. How does he keep finding me?” I curl my hands into fists and relish the little bite of pain my nails make against my palms. “I need to disappear to some place with no connection to any of us or our friends.”
Seb nudges a plate toward me, but my stomach gurgles uncomfortably.
“I know a place.” B gives me a small smile as he chews. “I bought it a few years ago. It’s private.”
“No, if you bought it, it can be traced back to you. Dennis knows you guys are with me.”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “It’s not in my name.” B’s features are carefully neutral, but he’s tapping a finger against the counter like he’s hiding something.
“Where is it?” Seb asks.
“Close.”
Seb shakes his head. “Okay, we need to leave now then. I know it’s quick, but let’s be smart about this.”
I hate that he’s right.
“What about my car?” I ask.
