Page 84 of Babies for the Big Shot

She’s barefoot, hair half up, that messy twist that probably took more time than she’d ever admit. A half-eaten takeout container sits on the table. Meatball glares at me from the couch as if I’m late.

“I didn’t like the way you sounded,” I say, my voice low.

“I know.” She exhales shakily. “I almost didn’t call. I wasn’t going to.”

“What changed?”

She hesitates. Then she walks to the table and picks something up. A thick envelope, no stamp, no address. She hands it to me without a word.

I take it from her, open it.

One line.

I think we should talk. You deserve to know the full story.

Isla Vale—Edge Magazine.

I blink once, then look up. “Who the hell is Isla Vale?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, her voice small. “But she left that. Slid it under the door maybe five minutes before I called you.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “You didn’t see her?”

“I checked the hallway. It was empty.”

I glance back at the note, my grip tightening around it before I toss it back onto the table. But I know it’s not over. There’s something else there, something else lurking in her eyes.

I step closer to her, my voice sharp. “Sara. Talk to me. Start from the beginning.”

She closes her eyes for a beat, then nods.

“I didn’t tell you before,” she begins, her voice small, “because I didn’t want to sound paranoid… but a few days ago, I started getting texts. From an unknown number.”

Every muscle in my body goes still. “What kind of texts?”

Her lips press together, and she pulls out her phone, scrolling through it before handing it to me.

Green really is your color.

You think Nick is different with you?

I read each message twice, then again a third time. Cold fury burns through me, sharp and steady, carving through everything in its path.

“And this was after the gala?” I ask, my voice quiet but dangerous.

She nods. “I blocked the number. I thought it would stop.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No. It just… got worse. I started feeling like I was being watched. I saw a woman outside the office, trench coat, sunglasses. Not once. Three times. Always standing just far enough away so I couldn’t be sure.”

“You mean Rebecca.”

“I think so.” She shrugs, a helpless motion. “I don’t know. I keep second-guessing myself. I wanted to believe I was imagining it.”

“You weren’t.”

I say it as if it’s a fact. Because it probably is. I know Rebecca well enough to recognize her methods. She’s always playing the long game. Making you question everything just before she strikes.