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CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE

Morgan stretched her stiff shoulders, wincing as the muscles protested after hours hunched over her laptop.

Outside her cabin window, twilight painted the snow in shades of lavender and blue—the kind of light photographers called “the magic hour,” though most failed to capture its ephemeral quality.

She’d been editing her photos all day, losing track of time until the changing light outside alerted her to the late hour.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated the room.

Morgan paused, listening to the soft crackle of the fire. To the wind rustling through the spruce trees outside.

There it was again.

A sound that didn’t belong.

A faint scraping along the cabin’s north side.

Her pulse quickened as she set her laptop aside and moved cautiously to the window.

Pressing herself against the wall, she peered out at the gathering darkness.

Nothing but snow and trees—the familiar landscape of her chosen isolation.

Yet the sensation of being watched lingered, prickling along her spine.

Just the wind , she told herself. Or a moose brushing against the siding .

But the rational explanations didn’t dispel the unease that had been her constant companion these past weeks. She checked the door locks again—a habit that had become almost ritualistic—before returning to her desk.

Instead of picking up her laptop, she glanced at her journal. It lay open where she’d left it, her pen marking the blank page.

Morgan settled back into her chair and picked up the pen, her mind drifting to warmer memories as she began to write.

March 27

If you’re reading this, I’m still trying to make sense of these feelings. They shift and change like ice in the spring thaw—sometimes solid, sometimes fluid, never quite settling into a form I can name.

I’ve been thinking about Simmy and Ranger’s wedding last November.

I’d been shocked when Logan asked me to accompany him. It was the first time he’d ever suggested something beyond our comfortable friendship.

He seemed almost nervous when he mentioned it, his usual confidence momentarily wavering as he explained that the Murder Club would all be there, that it would be more enjoyable with company.

All practical reasons that somehow couldn’t disguise what felt like a more personal invitation.

I remember spending far too long deciding what to wear before finally settling on a dark green dress that somehow matched the exact shade of the forest at dusk. Logan noticed—I caught him looking at me during the ceremony, a softness in his expression I’d never seen before.

Ranger stood tall and solemn at the altar, this mountain of a man suddenly vulnerable as Simmy walked toward him. Logan, seated beside me, briefly rested his hand over mine when they exchanged vows.

For a moment, the warm weight of his hand against my skin felt significant in ways I couldn’t articulate.

Later, while surrounded by the kind of joy that makes inhibitions feel unnecessary, we danced.

Logan doesn’t dance—everyone knows this—yet there he was, one hand at my waist, the other carefully holding mine as if it might break.

Moving awkwardly but earnestly to whatever slow song the band was playing.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I told him.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his voice low and close to my ear.

Simple words that have echoed in my mind for months now.

The evening ended with a bonfire. Its sparks had risen to meet the stars while the Northern Lights shimmered overhead. Picture-perfect, the kind of scene I’d normally be desperate to capture. But for once, I left my camera untouched.

Some moments resist documentation—they can only be lived.

Logan drove me home that night, the heater of his SUV struggling against the November chill. We didn’t speak much, but the silence felt comfortable, laden with possibilities neither of us was ready to acknowledge.

At my door, he hesitated—that suspended moment where anything might happen. But he only smiled, wished me good night, and waited until I was safely inside. Always the protector, even when there was nothing to fear.

Or so I thought.

Now I’m not so certain.

It’s better than he’s not making any moves. I don’t deserve those good things—and Logan would definitely be a good thing.

In other news, the feeling of being watched has intensified these past days.

This morning I found boot prints in the snow beneath my bedroom window—too large to be mine, too deliberate to be a random passerby.

When I called the gallery about the upcoming exhibition, Meredith mentioned that someone had been asking detailed questions about my schedule, my favorite shooting locations.

A “devoted fan,” she called him. He’d asked specifically about the Borealis Lake photograph and whether I’d be showing more from that series.

I should tell Logan about these things. The prints. The questions. The sense that something is closing in around me.

But what would I say? That I’m jumping at shadows? That normal fan interest has me checking locks and peering into darkness?

I know what he’d do—insist on staying here, or worse, have me stay in town where he could keep an eye on me. My work would suffer. And whatever fragile thing has been growing between us might wither under the weight of his concern and my inevitable resentment.

Still, I can’t shake the memory of that guy’s face at the last exhibition. How his enthusiasm seemed to sour when he saw Logan standing beside me, examining my latest print. The way his eyes followed us throughout the evening, calculating something I couldn’t name.

“He’s harmless,” the gallery owner assured me. “Buys something at every show. One of your most dedicated collectors.”

But something about his persistence makes me uneasy. The flowers he sends. The calls to the gallery asking when I’ll be there next. Meredith mentioned he’s purchased tickets to the conservation benefit next week—the one where I’m showing my popular Borealis Lake series.

Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe these disconnected incidents are exactly that—disconnected.

But in my photographs, I’ve always been drawn to patterns others miss. The subtle relationships between seemingly separate elements that, when viewed from the right perspective, reveal their true connection.

I’ve spent my career documenting the beauty in broken things. I just never expected to feel like one of them.

If you’re reading this, and something has happened to me. Maybe this will help you find me.

And Logan—if by some chance you ever read these words—I wish we hadn’t wasted so much time being careful.

—M