Page 23

chapter

fifteen

The feeling always started at twilight, creeping in like smoke through the cracks in her carefully constructed calm.

Nessie stood at the kitchen window of her apartment, watching the sun bleed out behind the mountains.

Oliver was asleep on the couch, his T-Rex tucked under one arm, his breathing soft and even.

The bakery below was locked up tight, register counted, floors swept, tomorrow’s prep list written in her careful handwriting.

Everything was as it should be. Safe. Predictable. Normal.

So why did her skin feel like it was crawling?

She pulled the curtains closed and double-checked the locks—front door, back door, the deadbolt she’d installed herself three months after moving to Solace. All secure. But the feeling persisted, that familiar prickle between her shoulder blades that said someone was watching. Waiting.

It had been three weeks since Sheriff Goodwin had cornered her about Jax, three weeks since Bailee Cooper’s murder had turned the whole town into a nest of whispers and sideways glances. And two weeks since she’d given Jax her number.

To her surprise, he’d called that first night.

And every night since.

The phone calls had started innocently enough.

Quick check-ins. Just to make sure she was okay, he’d said.

She’d told herself giving him her number was nothing, just a nice gesture for a man who needed a friendly ear.

But then the calls became a nightly ritual, something she found herself looking forward to after Oliver was asleep and the quiet of the apartment became too loud with her own thoughts.

Tonight, the phone sat silent on the counter. No call yet. She checked the time. 9:43. Later than usual.

Nessie moved to the sofa, muted the TV, and carefully lifted Oliver into her arms. He mumbled something about dinosaurs before settling against her shoulder, all warm weight and little-boy smell.

She stood there for a moment, just holding him and breathing him in.

Before long, he would be too big for this, so she was going to hoard these precious moments like gold.

Carrying him to his room, she laid him gently on his bed, tucking the dinosaur closer to his side and pulling his fire truck-themed comforter up to his chin. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead and pressed her lips to his temple.

It was true what they said—when you have a child, your heart no longer lives in your chest. It runs beside you on small legs, wide-eyed and trusting, fragile and fierce all at once.

Oliver was her vulnerability and her strength.

He was the reason she’d found the courage to run, and the reason she’d never stop looking over her shoulder.

Everything she did, every choice she made, every moment of fear or hope or desperate prayer was for him.

“Sweet dreams, baby,” she whispered.

Back in the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of wine—a small luxury she rarely indulged in—and tried to shake off the feeling of being watched.

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. The apartment windows faced nothing but the mountains and sky.

No buildings tall enough for someone to see in, no convenient perches for watchers in the night.

It was just old habits from her early days in witness protection, as she’d transitioned from Genessa-Rae Sarkisian to Vanessa Harmon.

But the prickle remained.

Her phone vibrated against the counter, and she nearly dropped her glass reaching for it. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Jax said, and relief flooded through her at the sound of his voice. It was low and rough, like he’d been sleeping. Or trying to. “You okay?”

She almost laughed at how he always started their conversations this way. As if she were the one who needed checking on. “I’m fine. Oliver fell asleep on the couch watching Jurassic Park for the millionth time, and I just put him in bed.”

“That movie doesn’t scare him? Scared the hell out of me when I was his age.”

“No way.” She took her wine to the couch and sank into the cushions, watching the movie play on mute. “He critiques it.”

“Critiques it?” Jax’s voice held a hint of amusement. “Like what?”

“Oh, he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that the velociraptors should have feathers, and that the T-Rex couldn’t actually move that fast. Only for short distances.

” She took a sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through her chest. “Last week, he informed Mrs. Pendry that the Dilophosaurus never actually spat venom or had frills. She had no idea what he was talking about.”

Jax’s low chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

She pulled her feet up beneath her, settling deeper into the couch. “How was your day?”

There was a pause, and she could picture him shrugging on the other end of the line. “Same as usual. Worked with Echo. She’s making progress. She actually left the kennel today, sniffed around the yard.”

The pride in his voice made something twist in Nessie’s chest. “You sound happy. Maybe you’re making progress, too.”

“Maybe.” Another pause. “The sheriff came by again. Asking questions.”

Nessie’s fingers tightened around her glass. “What kind of questions?”

“The usual. Where was I the morning Bailee was killed? Did I know her?” A heavy sigh. “If I owned a hunting knife.”

“Jesus.” She set her wine down, suddenly queasy. “They can’t seriously think you did it.”

“They can think whatever they want. I know I didn’t.” His voice hardened slightly. “But it doesn’t look good. Ex-con with a violent record, new in town, no alibi except a woman with a flat tire.”

The crawling sensation between her shoulder blades intensified. Nessie rose from the couch and moved back to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains. The street below was empty, the few storefronts dark. Nothing moved in the shadows.

“You still there?” Jax asked.

“Yeah, sorry. Just...” She hesitated, not wanting to sound paranoid. “Do you ever feel like someone’s watching you?”

His silence was immediate, sharp. “Why? Did something happen?”

“No, no. Nothing specific. Just a feeling I can’t shake.”

“Since when?”

She considered the question. “It’s been on and off since Bailee was found. Worse at night.” She laughed nervously. “Probably just my imagination working overtime.”

“Maybe.” But he didn’t sound convinced. “You got decent locks?”

“Three on the main door. Two on the back. Windows are all secure.”

“Good.” He paused. “You carrying?”

The question caught her off guard. “What?”

“A weapon. Do you have one?”

She glanced toward the kitchen cabinet where a small .38 revolver sat in a lockbox on the top shelf, where Oliver couldn’t get to it. Marshal Brant had insisted she take it when she entered WITSEC, though she’d never fired it outside of mandatory training.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”

“Know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

His exhale was audible through the phone. “Good.”

They fell silent, and Nessie found herself straining to hear his breathing on the other end of the line. It was steady, rhythmic, and somehow comforting despite the tension of their conversation.

“Tell me something,” she said suddenly. “Something normal. Something that has nothing to do with murders or sheriffs or being watched.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. What would you cook if you had a real kitchen?”

The sound he made was somewhere between an exhale and a laugh. “What?”

“If you had a kitchen—not the bunkhouse kitchen, but your own—what would you make? Are you a cook?”

“I...” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, actually. Used to be, anyway. My grandmother, my mom’s mom, was full-blooded Italian. Taught me everything she knew before she died.”

“Really?” She settled back on the couch, surprised and intrigued. “Like what?”

“Lasagna from scratch. Proper risotto, the kind you have to stand there and stir for forty-five minutes. Osso buco that’ll make you cry.”

“Now I’m hungry,” she teased.

His laugh was soft, almost shy. “Been a while since I cooked for anyone.”

“Well, the offer stands if you ever want to use my kitchen. It’s nothing fancy, but it works.”

The words hung between them, weighted with an invitation neither of them was quite ready to acknowledge.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment. “What do you cook when you’re not making monster muffins?”

“I’m more of a baker than a cook. But I make a mean mac and cheese that Oliver swears is better than the boxed kind, which is basically the highest compliment a seven-year-old can give.”

“High praise indeed.”

The conversation drifted from there, easy, meandering, about nothing and everything.

He told her more about Echo’s progress, about the rooster that seemed to have a personal vendetta against River, about his awe at Anson’s excellent leatherwork, and his frustration with the horse he’d been assigned, Lazy Susan, who moved only when she was damn good and ready to.

She told him about Mrs. Pendry’s ongoing feud with the owner of the new chain sub restaurant, who was taking business away from her family’s century-old drug store and deli, and about Oliver’s latest dinosaur facts. Normal things. Safe things.

And as they talked, the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades gradually eased. The shadows in the corners of her apartment seemed less menacing. The silence of the night less oppressive.

“It’s late,” Jax finally said, his voice rough with fatigue. “You should get some sleep.”

She glanced at the clock. 1:37 AM. They’d been talking for hours, and she had to get up soon to start baking for the morning rush. “Yeah, I guess I should.”

But neither of them hung up.

“Nessie?” His voice had dropped to almost a whisper.

“Yes?”

“If that feeling comes back—the one about being watched—call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Another pause, filled with things unsaid. “Goodnight, Nessie.”

“Goodnight, Jax.”

She held the phone to her ear long after the call had ended, listening to the silence, feeling oddly bereft. Then she rose, checked the locks one more time, and went to bed.

But sleep didn’t come easily. She tossed and turned, her mind replaying their conversation, lingering on the way his voice had softened when he talked about cooking, the way he’d sounded genuinely concerned when she mentioned feeling watched.

It had been so long since anyone had worried about her. So long since she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable with someone other than Oliver. The sensation was both thrilling and terrifying.

The next night, her phone rang at exactly 9:30. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice.

“Hey,” he replied, and they fell into conversation as easily as if they’d known each other for years instead of weeks.

It became their ritual. Every night after Oliver was asleep, Jax would call.

Sometimes they talked for hours, sometimes just a few minutes.

Sometimes about serious things—his time in prison, her struggles as a single mom—but more often about the small, ordinary details that made up a life.

Favorite foods. Childhood memories. Books they’d read. Movies they’d seen.

And each night, as they talked, the feeling of being watched gradually receded. It never quite disappeared, but it became manageable, a low-level hum rather than a screaming alarm.

Until the night it came back with a vengeance.