Page 31 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Fifteen

Raylen

My House

"I know, Mom," I growl, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder to grip the steering wheel hard enough that the cracking leather sticks to my sweating palms.

"And you didn’t think to tell your father or me? We want to be supportive and help you. We can’t do that when you don’t even think to let us know what this time of year means to you." Her tone remains light, but there's a trace of judgment in every word.

"Why would I stress out my wonderful parents when I'm a fully capable adult?" I try to sound like my old self—the girl who used to make light of everything—but my attempt falls flat, as it always does. My therapist says I hold resentment toward my parents for not helping when I needed them most.

But how could they have helped with something they didn’t even know about?

"This isn’t a joke, Raylen. This is your life."

There it is. That sharp edge every mom has when she’s convinced she’s right.

Our relationship has always been a rollercoaster, but maybe that’s just the nature of mother-daughter relationships.

I pull into the gravel driveway, the trees growing thicker and darker, the sun bleeding out behind their branches.

Home . I haven’t been here in days, but I needed to grab some clothes.

Thanks to Moe’s new habit of letting me know when he’ll be around, I can plan whether to stay here or crash at Laura’s.

Who knew communication could solve half my problems?

Not me .

"You’re right, Mom," I say softly. "It’s my life. I can’t hide forever."

I say it as if I believe it, pretending I’m not still flinching at every creak and every shadow. I’m a survivor, so why does it feel like I’m still running?

"I just want you safe until we can determine if he’s still a threat."

He’s not, though. He hasn’t been for a long time.

Groaning, I gather my things and shove them into my hoodie pockets.

"Why don’t you come stay here? Or at least visit for dinner?

We can invite a few guests—" My mother coaxes like it's the most exciting idea…

last time she had a brilliant thought like this, I ended up grounded because rich boy Tommy didn't know how to climb a tree and he fell, breaking his arm.

In my defense, I was 13, doing what my mom asked of me by being polite and giving him a chance, but I didn't push him like he accused me of doing.

I simply told him I'd never date a snob and his hand slipped. Not my fault. And I'll stand by that.

"No." The car door slams, and I take a steady breath. "I’m sorry. I’m really busy with work and—"

"I’m just saying," she continues, "getting you back into the dating pool might help. Maybe having someone could be beneficial—"

"Oh my God, Mom." I tilt my head toward the sky, praying for patience. She doesn’t know this version of me—the one with sharp edges and tired eyes. She remembers the girl who smiled at sunshine, used her manners, and never talked back. But I’m not that girl anymore.

I wish she’d stop pretending I could be.

“Oh! I could see if the Jenkins boy is still around. He was always so sweet!”

Sweet. Quiet. Timid. Everything I don’t want.

A rumble of thunder cracks above, pushing me to pace under the awning by my door. I need out of this conversation before I lose it.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it—

"I’m seeing someone."

Shit .

The silence on the line stretches for too long but I can’t take it back.

That’s the first time I’ve referred to Moe as anything more than just a friend.

Is “seeing” the right word? Given our last interaction…

maybe. I’m not planning on sleeping with anyone else, and Moe is clingy enough to feel like a boyfriend without the actual title.

So perhaps it’s not a lie—just a preemptive excuse for when this relationship inevitably implodes.

Oh that sounded fancy, I like that.

“Oh, Raylen Maria!” my mother squeals so loudly that I have to pull my hand from my ear to avoid damaging my eardrum.

She continues rambling so quickly that each word becomes illegible as they blur together.

I couldn't piece her sentences together even if I tried, especially since the corner of my mat is out of place.

My heart races as I tilt my head and crouch down to examine it.

It’s a simple thing that shouldn’t cause so much panic, but it sends chills down my spine.

I pinch the raised edge of the mat and pull it back, only to find my key perfectly aligned with the crack in the concrete, just where it’s supposed to be.

“Yeah, uh—Mom, I’ll call you later. I just got home and need—”

“No! Wait, let me get your father. Oh, do tell! What's his name? Is he nice? When do we meet—”

“I love you.” I abruptly hang up, not giving her a chance to respond.

I stand tall, roll my shoulders back, trying to look bigger than I feel.

The door handle’s still locked. That should be reassuring, but instead, the woods around me start to feel like they’re closing in.

The wind rustles through the trees like whispered threats.

Shadows stretch long and slow, like hands reaching back from a grave I buried long ago.

I glance at my phone. Should I call Moe? Or Jack?

No. If it’s nothing, I’ll feel stupid. I’m just tired and on edge. There’s no one left to hurt me—not anymore–I just need to prove that to myself.

With shaking hands, I growl in frustration as I fumble to tuck my phone away and pull out my house keys.

Maybe inviting Moe would have been a good option; I could have played it off as needing some company.

Even if he says he’ll be busy for a few days, I know he’d still show up.

I hate that realization—that he’s one of the most consistent people in my life.

As the door opens, I instinctively slam my hand into the switch, flooding the room with light. No monsters. No stalkers. Just home .

A loud thump echoes from the end of the hall, and I freeze.

It could be the wind. I wouldn’t be surprised if a ghost finally decided to inhabit my home.

Still, it doesn't stop me from quietly slipping off my shoes so I can tip-toe to the kitchen and grab a knife.

What's the worst that can happen? I stab air when I find the possibly non-existent noise.

Or I end up stabbing some psychotic stalker.

That thought is a lot more tempting than it should be.

There's another thump, but it's much softer and almost impossible to hear.

Even if the area is fully lit, I feel like shadows are breathing down my neck, and some serial killer is lurking around the corner, waiting to jump out and kill me.

Maybe I should call out, demanding whoever is in the house to show themselves or threaten to call the cops.

But what good has that ever done for the people in those horror films?

No, I need the element of surprise instead.

I fling open the bathroom door and turn on the light, waving my pitiful kitchen knife around as if it could connect with some foreign object. Of course, it doesn't, and I'm left staring at my reflection in the mirror, flushed and nearly sweating from exertion.

I need sleep—lots of it. That's the only thing I can assume is causing this mass anxiety forming in my chest. Even though I feel a bit safer now, I keep my weapon tightly in my fist as I rush to my room and pull my duffle bag out from under my bed.

There's no sense in continuing this wild goose chase for what is likely just a mouse in the wall.

Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe going back to therapy wouldn’t be such a bad idea, considering I feel like I’m having a psychotic breakdown. With a low groan in my throat, I open my closet, only to let out a blood-curdling scream that is quickly muffled by a hand clasping over my mouth.

“You said she wouldn’t be here!”

“That’s what Sam said!”

The voices overlap, and I can't tell who is speaking as I continue to thrash and wail, desperate to break free. My wrist is quickly caught and bent back, forcing me to drop the knife, so I start flailing my legs instead.

“Jesus, Sharkie, let the girl go!” one of them hisses, barely louder than a whisper.

I freeze, pretending to be still long enough for them to ease their grip. The moment I’m released, I suck in a breath and bolt for the door.

I’ve lost it. I’ve officially driven myself insane.

My mind must have concocted this delusion, a hostage fantasy gone rogue.

I always figured I’d be fine with a little forced captivity, but apparently, only if it involves a guy in a mask and a safe word.

Thanks a lot, Laura, for your smutty book recommendations.

The hood of my sweatshirt is jerked pulling back mid-step causing me to choke on a gasp as I’m spun around like a rag doll and tossed to the floor.

“You didn’t have to be so aggressive,” one of them says, exasperated. “She probably would’ve handled it better if we’d just knocked like normal people.”

I follow the sound of a voice to the closet, where I find a girl flipping through one of my romance novels as if she were at a book club, not hiding in a stranger's closet. My brows furrow, and my lips part to demand that she put it down, but I clamp my jaw shut, realizing that probably isn’t the proper response for a situation like this.

Her blonde hair, pulled into a tight bun, is somewhat recognizable, but the pieces don’t click together until she raises her head and locks her deep golden-brown eyes onto mine.

My head quickly jerks towards the soft footsteps that halt beside me.

My gaze finally drags the length it needs to find blue eyes that could be compared to the ocean.

I guess I should be thankful it was a masked-themed party in some way, as it forced me to focus on the most distinguishable parts of these women .

It’s Moe’s friends from the beach, and they’re absolutely psychotic.