Page 89 of Archer

The camera panned to photos pinned beside the loveseat. I recognized the first one immediately. A photographer had taken the shot of me and Blake at the CMA Awards last year. Except Blake’s face had been cut out and replaced with Webb’s, carefully glued in place.

There were dozens more. Me at album release parties, radio station appearances, photo shoots. In every single image, one of my companions’ faces had been removed and substituted with Webb’s face.

“He’s mentally inserting himself into your life,” Colton said. “Building a false narrative where you’re already together and using this place to feed the delusion.”

I wet my lips, too stunned to speak or process the onslaught of emotions.

The camera panned to the kitchenette. Plates set for two. Wine glasses. A calendar on the wall with dates circled and annotated. Our First Meeting. The Night She Sang to Me. The Day She Came Home.

None of those dates meant anything to me. But to Webb, they were milestones in a relationship that didn’t exist.

Then the camera focused on something in the far corner, and it took a moment for my brain to catch up with the problem.

Webb had a chest freezer.

“What—” My voice broke. “Why is there a freezer?”

The officers on screen were asking the same question. One of them opened it fully, shining a flashlight inside. Nothing. Just empty space and what looked like zip ties attached to the sides.

Archer stood abruptly. “Turn it off.”

“Archer—” Knox started.

“Turn. It. Off.”

Nash’s screen went black.

Silence filled the cottage, heavy and suffocating. Bright red rage colored Archer’s skin, and his muscles stiffened as he turned to me. Our eyes met, and he paled.

“He was going to take me,” I said. The words came out flat. Dead. “That’s what the freezer was for. To transport me somewhere. Or—” I couldn’t finish the thought.

“We don’t know that,” Knox said gently.

Archer set the phone on the kitchen table and laced his hands behind his head, attention fixed on the ceiling. The embodiment of violence barely contained.

“Nashville PD is going through the journals now,” Colton said. “They’re documenting everything. But from what they’ve shared so far, it seems that Webb believes you and he are somewhere between an existing couple and starstruck lovers. The last entry was only a few days ago. He specifically mentions a force keeping you apart, calls it the guard.”

Archer dropped his arms to his sides and made a furious sound low in his chest.

“He also calls you the obstacle and a temporary inconvenience,” Knox added.

Archer returned to the phone and raised it. “Am I his opponent in this scenario? Or does he think I’m holding her hostage?”

His teammates didn’t respond.

“I’m going with prison guard,” Nash said. “That same entry talks about ‘freeing Harper from her captor’ and ‘bringing her home where she belongs.’”

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the horrific images now seared into my brain. The mannequin with my hair. The freezer and zip ties. Webb’s face pasted over Blake’s in that photo.

“There’s something else about the journal entries,” Nash said. “Nashville PD is suggesting a pattern of agitated entries following events where your boyfriend was present. Apparently, those were more violent in tone. I haven’t gotten to read them, so I can’t weigh in. But they said that settled down for a long while.”

“We broke up,” I said. “And I started running. I’ve barely done anything with my career or anything else in months.”

Nash nodded. “He’s fixated on your rescue. It sounds as if he imagines himself a hero, and you as a princess in need of rescue.”

Archer stopped pacing. “He’s planning to get through me to do this?”

Nash nodded. “Yes.”