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Unknown Caller

It should have been you.

The phone nearly slips from my suddenly numb fingers as I stare at the message, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Eve?” Rissa pauses by the passenger door, frowning at me. “Everything okay?”

I can’t find my voice, but I manage a quick nod. The words on the screen blur as memories flood back—Gio’s hands around my throat, the terror of thinking I would die, the relief of survival that now feels like a curse.

It should have been you.

Is this a threat? A warning? Or just someone’s sick way of confirming what I’d already been thinking—that if I had died that night, maybe this woman would still be alive?

My hands shake even more as I unlock the car, trying to push down the rising panic. The message glares up at me, each word a knife twisting in my gut.

It should have been you.

The sender knows about my attack. Knows I survived. Is this the murderer taunting me? Or someone else who blames me for what’s happening?

One thing’s certain now—this isn’t random. This is personal. And it confirms what I’ve suspected—these attacks, these women, they’re all connected to me somehow.

The madness has to end. No more women can die because I lived.

The steering wheelis slick beneath my sweaty palms as I guide my car through the late afternoon traffic. Every few minutes, my eyes dart to the rearview mirror, catching glimpses of the black SUV following at a discreet distance—one of Zeke’s men keeping watch. The text message burns in my mind like a brand.

It should have been you.

I grip the wheel harder, trying to ground myself in the present moment, but guilt and fear swirl together in a toxic cocktail that makes my stomach churn.

The SUV behind me turns when I turn, maintaining a steady distance. I should feel safer knowing someone’s watching my back, but the sender’s words echo in my head. I can’t seem to get it to stop no matter how hard I try.

A horn blares, and I realize I’ve drifted too close to the center line. I jerk the wheel, correcting my path, heart pounding.

Focus, Evelyn.

I check the mirror again. The SUV is still there, a silent guardian I never wanted but now can’t live without. Just like Zeke. Just like this whole mess I’m tangled in.

I pull into the driveway, still rattled by the day’s events. The black SUV cruises past, continuing down the street to take up their designated surveillance position. Shaking my head, I grab my purse and badge from the passenger seat.

I pause at the front door, keys in hand, hearing laughter from inside. Leo’s high-pitched giggle mingles with Zeke’s deeper chuckle. The sound wraps around me like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension from my shoulders.

When I step inside, the aroma of garlic and herbs drifts through the evening air. My stomach growls, reminding me Ididn’t eat much of my lunch. But this? This smells like actual cooking, not takeout.

As I make my way to the kitchen, the scents grow stronger—garlic, basil, tomatoes. Steam rises from pots on the stove where Zeke stands, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stirring something that smells divine. Leo’s perched on a stool at the counter, face smeared with what looks like tomato sauce, enthusiastically wielding a wooden spoon.

“Aunt Evie!” Leo’s face lights up. “We’re making ‘sketti. Uncle Zeke showed me how to crush the garlic!”

My heart lurches at the new name he’s calling Zeke.Uncle. He’s also been spending a lot of time with Seb and he’s also earned the same title. It both pleases and terrifies me. What if this relationship with Zeke doesn’t last? What if it’s temporary? Will it end when I no longer need his protection?

Zeke turns, and something in his dark eyes softens when they meet mine. “You’re home early.” His voice is a low rumble that sends warmth spreading through my chest.

I lean against the doorframe, drinking in the scene before me. Zeke’s gourmet kitchen, usually so quiet and sparkling clean, has transformed into something from a different life. Ingredients scatter across the counter, a light dusting of flour covers Leo’s shirt, and the whole space feels alive with domestic energy.

For a moment, just a brief moment, I forget about the text message, about the victim, about all the darkness lurking outside these walls. Here, in this kitchen, with Leo’s sauce-stained grin and Zeke’s quiet presence, I can almost believe in something different. Something safer. Something whole.

I watch as Zeke guides Leo’s small hands, showing him how to tear the fresh basil leaves. “Not too small,” he instructs, his voice gentle in a way I rarely hear. “We want people to taste the herbs in their bites.”

Leo’s tongue pokes out in concentration as he carefully follows Zeke’s demonstration. There’s something about seeing them together like this—Zeke’s large frame bent protectively over my nephew, his usual intimidating presence softened into something almost tender—that makes my chest ache.