Page 35 of Three Months Yesterday

“Are you staying in town?” Ryan asks, his words gentle, like he’s afraid he’s going to ruin something.

“I don’t have any plans to leave at the moment, but I guess that will all depend on the conversation with Ian.”

I don’t want to leave Stonebridge Hollow or The Lantern Inn; not when I’m only just starting to find my joy in writing music again. Not when I’m finally starting to feel alive again and for the first time in twenty years.

“Do you want me to come visit? I can push off the work stuff. Maybe it would be safer for you if someone else is there?”

“Let’s not go changing plans until I talk to Ian about everything.” I grab a mug from the cabinet above the coffee maker and pour myself a cup before moving to the cottage door. “It’s a long shot, but maybe he’s blowing things out of proportion.”

“That’s definitely wishful thinking on your part,” Ryan draws, laughter edging his voice.

The sight of frost on the grass and the bite of the air makes me pause. It’s not the first frost of the season—far from it, actually—but it’s the first time I could swear it feels more like winter than fall.

It’s early still, more than an hour till sunrise and the chill in the air should make me stay inside, but something pulls me onto the porch, the phone held to my ear in one hand and the steaming cup of coffee in the other.

Ryan and I are silent, knowing he’s not wrong. Ian doesn’t blow things out of proportion. The man served in the Navy for over twenty years and knows how to operate under the highest of pressures. I don’t think he knows how to make a big deal out of anything.

A beep sounds in my ear, and as I pull the phone away, Ian’s name shows on the screen. “That’s Ian calling me now.”

“He’s calling early,” Ryan murmurs, more to himself than me, but he’s quick to continue, knowing I need to get off the phone. “You’ll call me later to fill me in?”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Stay safe.” Then he’s gone.

My eyes wander to the house next door, wondering where Madison is. It’s about the time she’d normally be heading out for her run, but the house is dark and silent.

I’m so lost in thought and distracted, I miss picking up the initial call from Ian. It’s not till I feel the vibration in my hand that I remember he’s the reason I got off the phone with Ryan in the first place.

“Sorry,” I answer. “I was on with Ryan when you called.”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t positive you’d be up, but figured I’d take a chance.” There’s no warmth in his voice, and I know he’s in operator mode.

I don’t need to see Ian to know just how serious this is. “Just hit me with it,” I tell him, not wanting to beat around the bush.

Up until this point, we thought my apartment was secure. While things were delivered to the building, there’d been no indication my stalker knew which apartment I was in.

Ian and his team had scoured the security footage, looking for clues and slip-ups, but nothing came up. Whoever my stalker was knew what they were doing and paid attention to the comings and goings over everyone in my building. Every package was left at the front desk, just as the concierge stepped away—either running something up to another resident or letting a guest into the secure areas of the building.

That’s the thing about my building, the only way around is with a security card. Guests are escorted by residents or staff in order to get past the welcome area, and guests aren’t granted access unless they are pre-approved. If someone shows up without advance notice, then a resident has to come down.

In theory, the only way my stalker made it up to my apartment was with the help of another resident or someone on staff at the building.

Thinking through everything logically, I’m safer if I stay in Stonebridge Hollow than returning home, but moments like these aren’t filled with logical thought. They’re filled with emotion.

“How much do you want to know?” Ian asks.

“All of it.” The response is instant. No matter what he tells me, I’ve been through worse.

“It’s safe to say we’re dealing with an intimacy seeking stalker, probably an erotomaniac.”

My stomach clenches at the words. I don’t know what they actually mean, but I can take an educated guess.

“You’re going to need to buy new underwear, and you might want a new bed.”

“What?” I gasp, bile rising in my throat at thought of why that would be necessary.

“They stole your underwear and then left you quite the collection of their own. Unused, or at least washed, if it makes it any better, but⁠—”