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CHAPTER

FIFTY

Morgan stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in her well-worn terrycloth robe as steam clouded the small bathroom mirror. The hot water had done little to wash away the lingering unease that had followed her home from today’s shoot at Earthquake Park.

She’d been capturing the subtle signs of spring renewal among the earthquake-damaged trees. That was when the sensation of being watched hit her.

The feeling had intensified to the point where she’d packed up her equipment and left an hour early.

Her bare feet padded across the cabin’s hardwood floors as she moved to the kitchen, automatically checking the locks on both doors. The ritual had become as routine as brushing her teeth.

The kettle whistled just as her phone buzzed with a text from Logan.

How did the shoot go today? Saw some weather moving in from the west.

Morgan smiled despite her jangled nerves.

His messages always had this practical edge, as if checking on the weather was easier than admitting he worried about her spending so much time alone in remote locations.

She typed back quickly.

Finished early. Spring is stubborn this year. It keeps hiding behind winter’s shadows.

His response came almost immediately.

Sounds like a metaphor.

She continued smiling as she replied.

Everything’s a metaphor to a photographer—especially when you’re trying to make sense of things that don’t quite fit together.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally, words appeared.

Want to talk about it?

Morgan stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard.

How could she explain the growing certainty that something was wrong without sounding paranoid? How could she tell Logan about the man at today’s location who’d been sitting in his truck when she arrived and was still there when she left, never getting out, never doing anything but watching?

Instead, she typed:

Raincheck. Long day.

Of course. Get some rest.

She set the phone aside and prepared her evening tea. But she found herself drawn to the living room window that faced the road.

She saw nothing but darkness and the familiar silhouettes of spruce trees swaying in the wind. Still, she pulled the curtains closed with deliberate care.

Her journal lay open on the coffee table where she’d left it that morning, the blank page seeming to mock her inability to process what she couldn’t quite name.

Morgan settled into her reading chair, mug warming her hands, then picked up her pen. Maybe she couldn’t talk to Logan about her fears, but she could write about them.

April 2

If you’re reading this, I’m probably second-guessing myself again. Dr. Winters would say that uncertainty is normal after loss, that hypervigilance is a common response to grief. But it’s been almost five years since Bobby died, and this feels different. More immediate. More personal.

I keep thinking about what Bobby used to say about trusting your gut. “Instincts don’t lie, Morgie,” he’d tell me when I was a teenager, worried about some boy or friend who seemed off. “People might fool your head, but they can’t fool what you feel in your bones.”

Well, my bones are screaming that something’s wrong.

Today at Earthquake Park, there was a man in a truck who stayed in the parking area the entire time I was shooting.

Three hours.

He never got out, never seemed to be doing anything but sitting there.

When I finished and walked back to my car, I felt his eyes tracking my movement. I tried to get a look at his face, but the glare on his windshield made it impossible.

Maybe he was just enjoying the view. Maybe he was on a work break. Maybe I’m losing my mind.

But Bobby always said coincidences were usually just patterns you hadn’t recognized yet.

This is the fourth time in two weeks I’ve noticed someone watching me work. Each time was a different location and a different vehicle. But it was always someone who didn’t belong to the landscape. Someone who was there for me, not the scenery.

I should tell Logan. I know I should. But every time I think about it, I imagine his reaction—the way his jaw will tighten, his eyes will go cold and assessing.

He’ll want to know details I don’t have, evidence I can’t provide. Then he’ll insist on accompanying me to shoots.

Or worse—he’ll suggest I take a break from the more remote locations.

My work would suffer. Whatever delicate thing has been growing between us—the careful glances, the almost-conversations, the moments when the air seems to shimmer with possibility—it will all be buried under his need to protect me.

I’m tired of being careful around him. Tired of pretending I don’t notice when he looks at me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to touch. Tired of acting like I don’t dream about what it would feel like if he stopped holding back.

At Simmy and Ranger’s wedding, when we danced, I felt something shift between us. For just a moment, his guard dropped completely, and I saw something raw and wanting in his eyes. Then it was gone, shuttered away behind that professional mask he wears like armor.

What is he hiding? What keeps a man like Logan—strong, decisive, unafraid of anything—from reaching for what he clearly wants?

Sometimes I catch him looking at me with such intensity that I think he’s about to say something important.

His mouth will open slightly, his eyes will soften, and I’ll hold my breath waiting for words that never come.

Instead, he’ll ask about my camera settings or mention an interesting case he’s working on.

Then the moment will dissolve like morning mist.

Bobby would have cornered Logan by now, demanded an explanation for all this careful distance.

“Life’s too short for maybe, Morgie,” he used to say. “Either jump or step back from the cliff. But don’t spend your whole life standing on the edge.”

I’m tired of standing on the edge.

Tomorrow is the award ceremony. Logan will be there, looking uncomfortable in formal wear but devastatingly handsome, nonetheless. Maybe it’s time to stop waiting for him to make the first move. Maybe it’s time to push past whatever wall he’s built between us and demand some honesty.

If Bobby taught me anything, it’s that some risks are worth taking.

But, first, I need to figure out why I feel like I’m being hunted. Why my safe, predictable life suddenly feels like a house of cards waiting for someone to blow it down.

I’ve started keeping my camera with me even when I’m not working. There’s a strange comfort in having it nearby. It’s like carrying a piece of my identity in case someone tries to steal the rest of me.

If you’re reading this, future me, I hope you’re laughing at these fears. I hope you’ve figured out what Logan is hiding and why it matters so much to him. I hope you’ve found the courage to jump.

And if you’re someone else reading this . . . if something has happened to me . . . look for the patterns. Bobby always said the truth was in the details most people ignore.

—M