Page 84 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Clearly, it wasn’t. You had no right to keep this from me.”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable. Not because anyone disagrees, because everyone knows I’m right.

Trigger stops pacing long enough to slam both hands onto the countertop. The fury in his voice makes me jump. “The fucker knew exactly what he was doing.”

My stomach twists. “What happened?”

For a second, nobody answers. The hesitation is somehow worse than anything they could say. Finally, Shadow reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded photograph. The image shakes slightly in my hand as I take it. It’s of me leaving the grocery store. The date stamp in the corner is from three weeks ago. Another photo follows. Then another. Me pushing Owen on the swings, me getting coffee, me walking into the clubhouse, me laughing with Dash, me carrying Owen to the car after he’d fallen asleep.

A cold feeling spreads through my chest. The photographs feel intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl. Not because of what I’m doing, but because somebody was watching. Somebody was close enough to capture moments I don’t even remember happening.

“He left dozens of them,” Shadow says quietly. “He wants you to know he’s watching, that you leaving the house doesn’t mean he isn’t there.”

I stare at the images scattered across the counter. The room suddenly feels too warm. Too small.

“He took things too.” Trigger spits the words out. His expression darkens further. “Photos. panties. Anything personal that he could get his hands on. He knew where you kept things, too, and only went to the drawers where he might find things, the nightstand, your underwear drawer, the laundry hamper.”

My stomach turns thinking of the vibrator in my nightstand that I have no doubt is now missing. The violation flays me. This wasn’t a random burglary. It was deliberate, calculated, and personal.

Shadow places a folded piece of paper on the counter. I already know I don’t want to read it. I do anyway.

YOU BELONG TO ME. IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU, NO ONE CAN.

The words blur slightly as fear finally catches up with me. For weeks, this had felt distant somehow. Threatening, yes. Scary, definitely. But distant. Now somebody has been inside my home. Inside my son’s home. Inside the place where we should be safest. A place that will never feel safe again.

A heavy silence settles over the room. Nobody seems quite sure what to say. Eventually, I look up. Trigger’s expression is murderous. Shadow’s isn’t much better. Chief looks grim. For the first time since this started, I realize they aren’t just angry. They’re worried. And somehow that frightens me almost as much as the note itself.

Until now, most of my attention has been focused on my own fear, my own confusion, and the increasingly terrifying realization that somebody has become obsessed with me. Looking at Trigger and Shadow standing across from me, I am suddenly forced to confront the fact that this situation is affecting them too.

Trigger is a man balancing on the edge of a cliff. Shadow looks like a man who has already decided to push somebody off one. The thought sends a fresh chill down my spine.

I force myself to focus. “Did you see him? The guy who broke in,” I clarify. “Did you actually see him?”

Trigger shakes his head, hands balling into fists. “No.”

Disappointment hits me like a physical blow. Some small part of me had hoped there would be a face. A name. Something tangible to attach all of this fear to.

“Nothing?” I ask. “Not even on the cameras?”

“He wore a mask. Hood up. Gloves. He knew exactly where the cameras were and kept his face hidden the entire time,” Shadow says, his voice low and controlled.

I swallow. “Did he leave anything behind? Anything that might tell us who he is?”

The look that passes between the men makes my stomach tighten. “No, he was careful,” Chief says quietly.

My shoulders slump. I shouldn’t be surprised. Whoever is doing this has been careful from the beginning. My gaze drops to the photographs scattered across the counter before returning to them.

“What about the house?” I ask. “Was there any sign of forced entry?”

That question produces another silence. A bad one. Every nerve in my body sharpens. “What?”

Trigger drags a hand through his hair. “There wasn’t any damage.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

“It means he didn’t force his way in.”

For several seconds, I simply stare at him. The implications slowly begin to sink in. “No broken windows?”