Page 96 of Nyx

Also, some women have simply left their abusive partners without the aid or knowledge of law enforcement. Some abusers don't have criminal charges pending or court orders in place restricting their contact.

A woman walks around the front of the SUV, her hands holding a gorgeous bouquet.

The men block her path, using a slightly lighter approach than they did when Travis Shaw showed up a few days ago.

"Who is it for?" one man asks.

The woman shakes her head. "I don't know."

"Who is it from?" he asks.

"It doesn't have a card," she says. "It was an online order."

"I want the credit card information," the man demands.

"I don't have that information," she says, growing annoyed. "You'll have to contact the owner of the shop. I'm just delivering the damn thing."

The guy speaking with her turns and looks back at the house, and only then do I get a good look at what's in her hands.

My knees nearly buckle. I grab the door frame, my vision swimming so much that my stomach turns with nausea.

It isn't just a flower arrangement. It's my flower arrangement. A replica of the bouquet I carried when I married Graham.

I couldn't have forgotten what today was even if I tried.

Had we stayed married, today would be our fifteenth wedding anniversary.

Flashes of the day fill my mind. Graham insisted on marrying on a Monday rather than on the weekend. I thought it was strange, but looking back, and knowing just how controlling he was, I imagine he did it to inconvenience as many people as he possibly could. He knew there was no way someone he invited would turn down the invitation, and I have no doubt he would try to ruin anyone who did.

It was one thing to learn that he accessed my music app remotely, but these flowers tell me that he knows exactly where I am.

My hands shake uncontrollably, my breathing jagged and nearly impossible to pull in enough to fill my lungs. Dizziness threatens to take me to the ground, but a shadow fills my vision, blocking my view of the woman holding the flowers.

"Nyx?" I manage, looking into his dark eyes.

How strange is it to say his name for the very first time when I just learned it moments ago?

It feels weird on my tongue, the letters as unfamiliar as my new name, but I cling to it in a way that should scare me. But nothing scares me more than the knowledge that after all these years of running, Graham has actually caught up with me.

"You have to tell me what's wrong," he says, his tone softer than the rageful look in his eyes.

He doesn't touch me, doesn't grab my shoulders to steady me, but his standing right in front of me goes a long way in calming me down.

I open my mouth in an attempt to explain, but my vision throbs in and out with the threat of another panic attack. I know this one will be just as bad, if not worse, than the one the other day.

"Deep breath in," he says. "Slow breath out."

His own breathing is purposeful, rhythmic, but I shake my head, unable to follow his lead as I did before.

The song was one thing, the explanation coming hours later enough to calm me down, but this goes so much further beyond a song.

Why now?

Why here?

I've always lived with the threat of him coming after me, but there were always parts of me in the back of my mind that convinced me that he had never actually tried to make contact. Years and years of playing it safe, of taking off and moving just to keep him away, had always worked.

Why now, in the one place where I could honestly let myself consider putting down roots, possibly having some sort of life other than always looking over my shoulder?