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“No. I just walked out the door and found the car has a flat,” tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she told Hemlock about the tire. She hated making the call, but she didn’t know where to even find the spare.

“Can your boss stay with you until I get there?”

Glancing at the restaurant through the rear-view mirror, she couldn’t go back inside because the alarm had been set. “Everyone’s gone. I closed by myself tonight.”

“Okay, stay in the car and lock the doors.”

She tried for humor. “Not to be fresh, but I’m not gonna stand outside of the car.”

Hearing her words for what they were… worry, he didn’t entertain them. “I’m on my way.”

“What’s going on?” Truck asked seeing the worried look on Hemlock’s face.

“Charlie just walked out of work to find the car has a flat.” Shoving off the sofa Hemlock said off handily, “I just put those tires on the car.”

“Hang on, I’m rolling with ya.” Truck said, getting to his feet. There were no coincidences in their world. And with Charlie’s exes something could be going on.

“Wait, I’m coming too,” Razor said as he tossed back the shot of Lalo. “It’s better to have plenty of backup.”

When they arrived, Hemlock found Charlie sitting in the car with the doors locked. She looked every bit freaked out. He couldn’t blame her, the parking lot of her workplace was ill lit. With the large dumpsters and beaten up wooden fence that was partially missing, the place looked like crackhead central.

Walking up to the car, he saw when she noticed him and gave her a little wave. Signaling for her to roll down the window, he told her to stay in the car while they changed the tire. Once the flatten tire was off and swapped out for the spare, Hemlock inspected the tire, searching for a nail or something that would have punctured it. What he found was a large gash in the tire wall.

Hemlock cursed under his breath. A gash like that wasn’t something you’d get from a nail or a sharp object lying around. It wasn’t just a flat tire; it was deliberately done. Someone had slashed it.

He stood and wiped his hands on a rag, glancing around the parking lot. The shadows were thick, the kind that made you feel like you were being watched, even though there was no one around. The dumpsters loomed like silent witnesses to whatever had gone down.

He turned to the car where Charlie was still staring wide-eyed out the window, her hand gripping the door handle like she was ready to make a run for it.

“Hey,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge to it, “you good?”

Charlie nodded quickly; her expression still frazzled. “Yeah, I … Idon’t know how it happened.”

“Don’t worry,” he cut her off gently, “it’s not your fault. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. It’s not random.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered, her voice dropping.

Hemlock’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to say something reassuring, but he didn’t know if he could. Something felt off, and it wasn’t just the tire. It was the whole setup, the vibe of the place. The way the air felt too still, too quiet. He wasn’t one for coincidences or random acts.

“Let’s head home.” He’d be right behind her, making sure nothing else happened to her or his car.

Charlie couldn’t sleep. The nightmares came in waves, each one wrenching her from rest with a sharp jolt. Finally, she threw back the covers and slipped out of bed, tugging Hemlock’s oversized T-shirt down around her thighs as she padded into the hall.

At the top of the staircase, she hesitated. The open space below felt vast and watching, so she quickened her steps, nearly hopping across it until she reached his door. She knocked softly, hoping she wasn’t waking him.

His voice came quietly from within.

She opened the door.

Hemlock sat propped against the headboard, a book in his hands, the page mid-turn. His expression was relaxed—until he saw her. Concern flickered across his face, replacing the calm. He set the book aside immediately.

“Charlie?” His voice was low, thick with sleep but lined with instinctive tenderness. He didn’t need to ask what was wrong—he could see it. The tightness in her shoulders, the pale cast to her skin.

“Nightmare?” he guessed.

She nodded, unable to speak past the knot in her throat. Her fingers clung to the hem of the shirt, like holding herself together.

Hemlock moved at once. “You’re cold,” he murmured, guiding her to the bed. His hands were steady as he pulled back the blankets. “Here—climb in.”