Page 74

74

CONNOR

A s soon as Gram drags Allie out the door, I’m moving.

I grab the keys, my phone, and a knife from the kitchen drawer. Nothing fancy, just something sharp enough to make a point if someone thinks about trying me.

I’m done waiting.

Whoever was watching us yesterday wasn’t just coincidentally in the same spot twice.

And if Peyton’s running and Daltyn’s gone silent, it’s not a coincidence.

I slide behind the wheel of our ridiculous rental—a neon convertible that looks like a drunk parrot designed it—and head into town. My eyes scan everything and everyone.

I know what it feels like to be hunted.

Allie doesn’t know about the stalker I had. One drunken night with a puck bunny years ago spiraled into months of paranoia.

I barely remembered her the next morning.

But she remembered everything . Especially the part where I ghosted her.

She showed up at practices. At the team hotel. Posted old photos with captions that made it look like we were still together. Sent my mom flowers. Left notes on my car.

When I finally confronted her, she smiled like we were sharing a private joke.

It took a restraining order, a security sweep, and a few off-the-record threats from teammates to make her disappear.

Even then, I checked my rearview mirror for months.

So yeah, I know the look . I know when someone’s watching you with purpose. And I know what it feels like when danger crawls under your skin and won’t let go.

I loop the main street again, eyes cutting through the flow of tourists, shadows, and alleyways.

Nothing.

I push deeper into town, where shops thin out and tourists fade.

That’s when I see him.

Hood pulled low. Lurking near a shuttered corner shop. Leaning against the wall like he’s part of the scenery.

But he’s too still. Too focused.

I pull into a side lot, kill the engine, and get out.

No sudden moves. No puffed-up confrontation. I walk like I’ve got nowhere to be. Like I’m not calculating every angle, every line of sight, every escape route.

I just want a better look. Maybe a license plate if he’s got a car. Something I can track.

But before I get twenty feet away, he looks up.

And bolts.

“Son of a?—”

I take off after him, sneakers slapping the pavement, my heartbeat syncing with every step.

He’s fast. But I’m faster.

I cut through an alley, spot him veer around a corner near a row of beach rentals.

I sprint, gaining ground.

But when I round the corner, he’s gone.

No footsteps.

No heavy breathing from running.

Just salt air and silence and a string of empty porches.

My jaw clenches as I scan the area.

Then I see it. A strip of torn bright blue fabric fluttering on a fence.

I move in, crouch down and examine it. My stomach tightens.

It’s the same color Peyton was wearing the day I saw her.

I snap a photo, rip it free, and shove it in my back pocket before heading back to the car.

My head spins.

I still don’t know why that asshole was watching my wife.

But I know this. Nobody gets near Allie.

Not without going through me.