The bouquet hits the ground with a soft, hollow sound, the keys clattering against the porch as I stumble back inside, slamming the door shut and throwing the deadbolt into place with shaking hands.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
Nothing about this feels like enough.
I back away slowly, my breath coming too fast, too shallow, my mind racing ahead of itself, trying to make sense of something that refuses to fit into anything logical. How did they get my keys? How long have they had them? How long have I been moving through my days without realizing someone else had access to every part of my life?
My back hits the wall, and I slide down to the floor, my body giving way beneath the weight of it. The journal presses against my chest, clutched tightly in my hands, the only thing that feels remotely real.
But even that feels fragile now.
Exposed.
I will always find you.
The words repeat, over and over, relentless, echoing through every corner of my mind until they drown out everything else.
My gaze drifts to the journal, to Whitney’s words, her voice rising again beneath the fear, threading through the panic, reminding me why I started this in the first place.
She trusted me.
She needed me to see it through.
But now the truth feels less like something I’m uncovering and more like something closing in.
A trap tightening with every step I take.
I force myself to move, pushing up from the floor on unsteady legs, my body still trembling as I reach for the hallway table, needing something solid, something grounding.
“McCullough? What’s wrong?”
Bennett’s voice breaks through the noise, and I turn to find him standing there, sleep still clinging to him, concern sharpening his features as he takes me in.
“Someone left something on the porch,” I manage, my voice thin, barely steady. “Flowers. With my keys. They had my keys, Bennett. They were here.”
“Did you lock the doors?” he asks immediately.
“Yes.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, panic bleeding into it. “Of course I locked them, but if they have a key?—”
My voice pitches, unraveling as the reality settles in again.
They don’t need to break in.
They already have.
Bennett closes the distance between us, pulling me into his arms, his grip firm, grounding, but the comfort doesn’t land the way it should. The house feels different now, the walls closer, the air heavier.
What was once safe now feels permeable.
Exposed.
Like something has already slipped inside.
And is waiting.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Phillip’s been getting threats.”
