Page 43 of Creeping Lily

LILY

M aybe I am crazy.

Clothes pile into my bag in no real order—shirts twisted, jeans shoved down like they wronged me somehow.

My hands won’t stop trembling, the zipper fighting me until I yank it shut with enough force to make my shoulder jolt.

It feels lighter than it should when I sling it over my arm, like adrenaline is carrying the weight for me.

My chest is tight, breaths clipped and shallow. I need out.

Spring break makes for the perfect excuse, and I grab it like a lifeline. Before I can vanish, Justin and Bethany block my path in the hallway, both of them wearing matching looks of suspicion wrapped in concern.

“Going somewhere?” Justin asks.

“Home,” I lie, the word tasting too smooth to be anything but practiced. “My mom and grandmother… need me.”

Bethany’s eyes narrow like she’s trying to peel the layers off me and find the truth underneath. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” I tack on a light tone, force a breezy smile that feels paper-thin. Inside, the storm still rages.

Justin drives me to the bus terminal without another word, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

I keep my gaze locked out the passenger-side window, watching the campus shrink in the rearview until it’s nothing but a blur.

I don’t let myself look back. Distance feels like oxygen, like maybe I can breathe again once there’s enough of it between me and everything I’m running from.

But his voice follows me. My stalker’s warning, low and measured— Forget the Walker family.

The weight of it presses against my ribs, a reminder that danger doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers.

My skin prickles at the phantom brush of his hand, the ghost of his presence still curling around me.

I haven’t seen him since the night he pulled me out of the dark. That night still lives behind my eyelids in jagged fragments: the scent of damp earth, the taste of fear, the sharp rush of survival. Two men. Two masks. Two predators.

The first—black ski mask, hot breath spilling threats I’ll never forget. Words like blades, cutting into the thin shell of composure I was clinging to.

The second—hood up, silicone mask molding him into something almost human but not quite. His movements had been clean, practiced, surgical. His danger wasn’t pointed at me, but it was there, coiled in every step, every flick of his wrist.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to.

I should have been relieved. But the worst part of that night wasn’t the attack—it was the silence afterward.

Sitting across from Bethany, my mouth locked shut while her gaze searched for answers I couldn’t give.

I couldn’t tell her I’d been saved by someone who rescued me in ways I couldn’t put into words.

Someone who felt like both a threat and a lifeline.

Now, with the bus engine rumbling under my feet and miles of road ahead, I’m chasing something I shouldn’t. My so-called “fact-finding mission. ”

I don’t know who my stalker is. I don’t know what he wants. But I know this—he told me to stay away.

And every mile I travel is me telling him I won’t.

The hinges groan as the door opens, revealing a woman whose warmth hits me before her words do. She’s got a smile that crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the kind of smile that belongs in a kitchen full of fresh bread and soft music.

“I’m Mrs. Ballyworth,” she says, introducing herself with a small nod. “My husband and I live here now—with our son, Billy.”

Billy appears at her hip, a toddler with curls that bounce around his face like they’re made of sunlight. He studies me for a single heartbeat before leaning forward with both arms out, as if we’ve known each other forever. His mother blinks in surprise.

“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” she says, voice colored with disbelief.

Billy giggles when I take him, his small hands curling into my sweater like he’s decided I’m safe. For a moment, I let myself smile back.

As we talk, Mrs. Ballyworth tells me they bought the old Walker house a year ago.

Before that, it sat empty for nine months—its windows dark, its halls stripped of the voices that once lived here.

She’s worked hard to make it hers, filling the rooms with light and warmth.

I can see it in the details—potted plants in the window, a fresh coat of paint on the porch railing. But the pool out back… that’s gone.

“We had to fill it in,” she says softly, her gaze flickering toward Billy. “Almost lost him to it.”

Her voice trembles, and I don’t ask for more.

When I bring up the Walkers, her expression shifts—soft sympathy, but no real answers. She says the Senator and Mrs. Walker separated and drifted their separate ways. She doesn’t know what happened to the boys.

Disappointment sticks in my throat, but I thank her anyway, lowering Billy gently back into her arms before stepping off the porch. The door closes behind me, and a strange heaviness settles over my shoulders, like I’ve taken a step deeper into the past without finding what I came for.

There’s somewhere else I need to be.

I’d boarded the bus from Colt University with a simple plan—to surprise Grandma Jo and my mom for spring break.

But somewhere along the way, something tugged me off course.

Now I’m here, in the middle of streets that used to know my name, standing outside a house that holds both the best and worst of my memories.

I walk away, forcing myself not to look back, and my feet take me where my mind hasn’t dared in years. The ice cream parlor.

It’s still here, though the sign above the door is faded and the windows are clouded over, as if time itself has pressed its fingerprints into the glass.

Inside, a freckled boy with hair the color of a stop sign stands behind the counter.

His grin is too wide for the dim little shop, and I can’t hold his gaze for long.

“One chocolate waffle cone,” I say, because some things don’t change.

Outside, the afternoon air is heavy and warm. The ice cream melts quickly, dripping down my fingers as I wander into the cracked parking lot next door. At the far edge, a lone bench leans against a towering brick wall, forgotten but still holding its ground.

I sink onto it, my shadow stretching long beside me.

This is where it happened. Where Bentley and Lincoln spent whole afternoons teaching me to ride a bike, their laughter ringing off the brick like music. Where scraped knees were badges of honor, and summer days never seemed to end.

But this lot is also where it all came apart. The place where the sound of their laughter became a memory instead of a promise. Where joy curdled into loss.

I stare at the wall, my ice cream melting into my palm, forgotten. The hum of passing cars fades, and all I can hear are ghosts—the voices of the boys I lost, and the echo of a girl I’ll never be again.

I stood beside my bike, hands tightening around the handlebars as my heart thudded in my chest. The two brothers flanked me, their presence equal parts reassuring and nerve-wracking.

Lincoln crouched slightly, adjusting my helmet with care, his fingers brushing my cheek.

His touch lingered just a moment too long, enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“You’ve got this, Lily,” he said, his voice warm with encouragement.

Bentley, standing a few feet away, pretended to check his own helmet, but his eyes darted toward me, watching, waiting.

Swallowing my nerves, I bit my lip and nodded, willing myself to push through. I wrapped my fingers around the handlebars the way Lincoln had shown me earlier, trying to channel some of their boundless confidence into my own shaky limbs.

“Just remember,” Bentley said, jogging up beside me, “it’s all about balance. We’ll be right here.”

The bike wobbled as I pushed off, their cheers urging me forward.

For a brief, glorious moment, I felt like I was flying.

The world blurred past, and adrenaline surged through me, mingling with the thrill of proving I could do it.

But then, reality caught up. The bike veered sharply to the side, and I toppled over with a startled yelp.

“Lily bird! Are you okay?” Lincoln was at my side in seconds, his concern radiating as he knelt down. His hands steadied me, their warmth grounding as I tried to brush off the sting from the fresh scrapes on my knees.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, swallowing the lump of frustration in my throat.

Bentley crouched beside us, his tone soft but firm. “Maybe we should take a break?”

“No.” I shook my head, blinking back the embarrassment. “I can do this. I’ll try again.”

Lincoln looked hesitant, but Bentley smiled, his gaze steady and encouraging. “She’s got it,” he said, glancing at his brother. “Let her try again.”

With a deep breath, I climbed back onto the bike. This time, I focused on their instructions—Lincoln’s steady hands guiding me when I wobbled, Bentley’s calm voice pointing out what to adjust. Slowly, I found my rhythm.

As the sun dipped lower, the impossible became real. I pedaled forward without a hitch, my laughter mixing with theirs as the thrill of freedom coursed through me. The bike moved smoothly, and for the first time, I felt invincible.

“You’re flying, Lily bird!” Lincoln called, his grin stretching wide.

Bentley jogged beside me, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Told you she could do it.”

By the time we stopped, my cheeks hurt from smiling. The boys’ faces were lit with pride, and for the first time, I felt like I belonged in their world—a world where confidence and courage could outshine fear.

Later, as we walked home, the warmth of Lincoln’s hand brushed against mine. Bentley rode ahead, his laughter echoing in the distance. Lincoln glanced at me, his eyes soft. “You were brave today,” he said, his words quiet but weighted.

I smiled back, feeling the flush creep up my neck. Their insistence that I try wasn’t just about the bike; it was about proving I could soar if I just gave myself the chance .

My mind drifts back to the present, the sharp, sticky drip of melted chocolate pulling me out of the memory. I look down at my hand, where the ice cream cone has all but collapsed, leaving trails of chocolate down my wrist.

I hurry to a nearby bin, tossing the cone and digging through my bag for a pack of wipes.

As I clean my hands, my eyes linger on the brick wall across the lot.

This was the place where I learned to ride, where we spent endless afternoons chasing freedom on two wheels and rewarding ourselves with ice cream.

Lincoln always won our races.

Every. Single. Time.

Except when he didn’t—when he let me win, just because that’s just the kind of person he was.