The Florida sun beats down as I step out of the house, the brightness almost aggressive against my skin, the warm breeze doing nothing to ease the unease that has settled deep in my chest since my meeting with Maverick yesterday. My heels click rhythmically against the driveway as I make my way to the car, keys already in hand, my mind drifting through a list of errands I don’t really care about completing. The morning has been long—heavy in a way that feels difficult to name, the weight of Whitney pressing against everything I do.
A trip to the market. Maybe a little shopping. Something to pull me out of the house and away from the storm circling in my head.
Something normal.
But the moment I open the car door, the illusion fractures.
My breath catches, sharp and immediate, as the world narrows to a single, horrifying point of focus.
The passenger seat.
At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. My brain resists it, tries to make it into something ordinary, somethingharmless. But the longer I stare, the more the truth settles in, slow and suffocating.
A shoe.
Not just any shoe.
Whitney’s.
The high heel from the debutante ball.
The satin straps, once pristine, are faintly yellowed with age, the rhinestones still catching the light in a way that feels almost cruel now—like the memory of something beautiful that never should have survived this long. Beside it, placed with disturbing precision, is a piece of my lingerie. Pale blush silk, soft and delicate, something I hadn’t even realized was missing until this moment, arranged on the seat as if it belongs there.
As if someone took their time.
As if someone wanted me to see it exactly like this.
My gaze drops, almost against my will.
The note is folded once. Clean. Intentional.
I unfold it with shaking hands.
You won’t need this soon.
The words are written in sharp, deliberate script—steady, controlled, unmistakably purposeful.
For a moment, everything inside me goes still.
Then my heart slams hard against my ribs, the sound filling my ears, drowning out everything else. My hands begin to tremble, the paper quivering between my fingers as the reality of it sinks in piece by piece.
The shoe.
The lingerie.
The note.
The knife.
The photographs.
This isn’t random.
It’s not even just intrusion.
It’s escalation.
Whoever is doing this isn’t just watching me.
