I open the fridge just to have something to do, pretending to consider leftovers like I’m not a woman who thinks about Sebastian’s breathing patterns for sport.
The sound of a car accelerating outside makes me jump.
I look out the window, annoyed with myself for overreacting. It’s just the mail truck. The world continues to exist beyond this house, and the warm heat from the fireplace.
Mr. Pickles’ ears flick toward the front door.
“Don’t start,” I tell him softly, because I’m not about to take threat assessment advice from a cat with an attitude.
I pad down the hall and open the front door. The air outside is crisp, damp, and quiet in a way that makes every sound feel louder than it should. The kind of quiet that makes you pay attention.
I pull my sweater tighter as I step outside and head toward the mailbox. I flip open the lid and riffle through it. Advertisements, a flyer for an upcoming spring festival, and something official addressed to Sebastian.
And then I notice the shrubs. The needles move like something brushed past them.
I pause with the mail tucked under my arm and squint at them.
It’s just the wind.That’s all. Just the breeze moving through them.
Except… the flags on the porch down the street aren’t moving. The small wind chime hanging from Mrs. Kline’s porch is still. The bare branches of the trees lining Old Mill Row aren’t trembling.
I look down at my long hair. Not even a strand lifts.
My stomach tightens.
Okay. This is weird.
Mr. Pickles comes up to me and bumps his head against my ankle.
I glance down. “What?”
He stares at the shrubs, then he looks up at me. He flicks his tail once before heading up the driveway and back inside like he’s decided this is above his pay grade.
Traitor.
I swallow and start up the driveway, the mail still clutched under my arm like it might become a weapon. It stretches out ahead of me, damp from last night’s rain. The hedge line bordering Sebastian’s property feels like a neatly trimmed boundary between normal and… whatever we are now.
Halfway to the house, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, like I’m being watched. That familiar, unpleasant certainty that someone else is in the space with you, even when you can’t prove it.
I look around, trying to act casual.
But I don’t see anyone.
I force myself to keep walking at the same pace.
Then I hear footsteps behind me. Too slow to be a squirrel. Too heavy to be the wind.
My spine goes rigid.
I stop.
So does the sound.
I let a full second pass.
Then another.
Then I slowly turn like I’m casually checking the street, and not because my pulse is trying to climb out of my throat.
