My pulse kicks up, hammering in my ears. The fingers are clearly defined, streaked like someone wiped their hand in it before pressing it to the wood. Like they wanted me to see it. A slow, sickening crawl of dread moves through me. My throat is dry. My skin feels too tight. I press a hand to my stomach, willing myself to breathe.
“It’s fine,” I whisper, but the words waver, shaky and weak. “It’s . . . it’s fine.”
But it’s not fine.
It’s not kids messing around. It’s not black bears slashing rubber.
Someone knows I’m here and is scaring me before they come to kill me. This time they might not fail. This time I might not be able to run away.
I stare at the tires, my pulse hammering so fast it drowns out the wind rustling through the trees. Maybe tonight is the night.
No tires. No truck. No way to run.
A crunch of gravel pulls me from the thought, and I whip around, my breath locking in my throat. A black truck—not Hopper’s—rolls up the drive, its engine low and steady, a sheriff’s emblem gleaming on the side.
Malerick Timberbridge steps out.
He’s taller than I remember, broad-shouldered and built like a man who’s spent years making sure people listen when he talks. His uniform fits like it belongs on him, the badge pinned to his chest catching the dull light. He takes his time scanning the yard—the truck, the porch, and finally me. His eyes, the same blue as his brother’s but far less forgiving, settle on the bloody handprint.
“Well, this isn’t how I expected us to meet, Ms. Calloway.” His voice is measured, but there’s something sharp beneath it. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
I cross my arms, feigning indifference, even as my stomach churns. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His gaze flicks back to the slashed tires, then returns to me, unimpressed. “Four slashed tires and a bloody handprint say otherwise.”
I don’t respond. My jaw tightens.
He exhales, pulls off his hat, and drags a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Look, I’m not here to play games,” he says, tone shifting, smoothing into something quieter. “My brother called me two days ago. Said you might be in trouble. I went through your file—you disappeared a little over three years ago. No trace. The house untouched except for your room—ransacked, like someone was searching for something. But nothing was stolen.”
My stomach knots, but I school my expression. Of course he went through the missing people report my grandmother filed before I contacted her. Of course he knows.
“I spoke to Delilah,” he says, mentioning one of my closest friends. “And Mrs. Harper. People remember when someone vanishes into thin air.” He pauses, his eyes sharp as he watches me. “It surprised me that your grandmother isn’t concerned, though. She said you’d find your way back when you were ready. That’s why the last sheriff stopped looking—she convinced him you were safe. Her heart knew it.”
I almost laugh. That old woman can spin a tale out of thin air. She was always good at persuading my grandfather to go along with whatever plan she cooked up.
“Well, my heart finally told me to come back,” I say, keeping my face neutral.
Malerick nods, but he’s not fooled. “Here’s the thing, Ms. Calloway. Your grandmother has been receiving texts from you almost since you left.”
My breath stills.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, too innocently, too quickly.
He tilts his head slightly, reading me like an open book. “I’ve done my homework. I have receipts for those texts and the actual texts themselves. Even when you changed numbers, you communicated with her up until two weeks ago. So let’s cut the shit. What happened that made you leave?”
“Nothing,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
He studies me, his expression giving nothing away. Then, stepping onto the porch, he turns back to the handprint. He doesn’t touch it, but he looks at it the way someone studies a puzzle, searching for the missing pieces.
“This isn’t random,” he murmurs. “And we both know it.”
My arms tighten around myself. Stop reacting. Stop letting him see. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want the truth,” he says simply, voice firm but not unkind. “Why did you leave in the middle of the night three years ago? And why are you back now?”
I take a step back, shaking my head. “That’s none of your business.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It is if it’s bringing trouble to my town. I can’t afford this right now. We have too much happening already.”
