Page 36

W e talked softly in the kitchen, the quiet, intimate sound a stark contrast to the late hour, both our hair damp from the recent shower.

“I knew you’d go for the cereal,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“It was either this or those weird freezer-burnt fish sticks the kids pretend to love.”

She arched a brow. “You could’ve made toast.”

“I thought about it,” I said, pouring the cereal into a bowl, “but then I remembered we’re out of butter. And I wasn’t about to disgrace your toaster like that. ”

She chuckled under her breath, a sound that did dangerous things to my cock. “How considerate.”

I leaned against the counter, spoon in hand. “You doing okay?”

She paused, chewing slowly. “I think so. My body feels… sore. But not in a bad way.”

I swallowed a laugh. “Emotional yoga?”

She rolled her eyes. “You and that metaphor.”

“It’s accurate. You’re stretching parts of your heart you haven’t used in a while. Probably wondering if I’m going to drop you mid-pose.”

She gave me a long look, equal parts fond and skeptical. “That was almost poetic. Who are you and what have you done with Levi ‘Avoidance Is a Coping Skill’ Shaw?”

I smirked. “He’s still here. But he’s been benched. The new guy’s giving this whole accountability thing a try.”

She broke off another cracker. “Dangerous.”

“I like to live on the edge,” I said, crunching my cereal dramatically. “Next I might try budgeting.”

“Slow down, Casanova. One wild fantasy at a time.”

We fell into a comfortable silence after that. Just the sound of soft chewing and the occasional creak of the house settling.

Then, the knock came.

The sound cut through the air, sharp and unexpected. Both of us froze, our hearts skipping a beat. Rufus, usually so calm, growled low from the hallway, his hackles raised.

Sloane’s voice was barely audible, a fragile thread of panic. “Don’t answer it.”

I didn’t need to ask who it could be. The tension in the air, the way the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, told me everything I needed to know .

Angie was outside.

Sloane and I stood frozen in the kitchen. The knock came again: three slow, deliberate raps. Rufus snarled low in his throat as he crept toward the front door.

“Don’t,” Sloane whispered again, clutching my arm now. “Please don’t answer it.”

I nodded, slowly backing us both out of view from the windows.

"Sloane. I have to…"

I reached for my phone and texted the detective immediately with the number they provided for emergencies.

Fuck, I feel like a sitting duck.

She’s here. At the house. Knocking.

The soft bing of the text being accepted was the only noise as we waited. Minutes passed. The knock didn’t come again. Instead, the sound of footsteps crunching across the gravel.

Rufus bolted to the window and barked. I hushed him as I peeked through the blinds. I heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.

All I saw was the blur of a figure disappearing down the sidewalk, hoodie up, posture unmistakable. It had to be Angie.

I turned to Sloane. “Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone. I’m going to check outside.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but her fear overrode it. She nodded.

I grabbed one of Liam's hockey sticks and slipped outside through the back, circling the house. Everything looked normal until I turned the corner to Sloane’s SUV .

The windshield was shattered. Glass glittered across the hood like ice shards. Car doors smeared with red lipstick scrawled in thick, erratic strokes:

BITCH HE'S MINE. WE BELONG IN KEY WEST

M y nostrils flared as my fist clenched at the scene before me. I turned around to scan the street, but saw nothing.

I'm going to bury you in Key West, Angie.

Back inside, I locked every window and door while Sloane stared at me with the question already in her eyes. “What did she do?” she asked quietly.

I paused, running a hand over my face before I answered. “She vandalized your SUV.”

Sloane blinked. “Goddamn."

"Yeah."

We stood in the dark silence of our kitchen, the situation and all of its implications churning between us, before we looked into each other's eyes. It was a testament to how long we'd been together, how perfect we truly were for one other, that we wore matching grins.

Incredulous, Sloane asked, "The cunt couldn’t have gone for the expensive company car? The one with full coverage?" She shook her head in mock disbelief. "Nooo, she had to go after my piece of shit.”

“So inconsiderate of her," I said with exaggerated seriousness.

"Inconsiderate and illogical. Destroy the most valuable thing you can. Isn't that basic Stalker 101?"

"My love, I don’t think logic was the driving force here.”

She stared at me, deadpan. “Of course it wasn't, Levi. After all, why process your emotions like an adult when you can vent them out on someone’s SUV? "

"Maybe she was attempting to turn it into a modern art piece?”

"I love modern art." Sloane looked thoughtful for a moment. "Is it at least... a good attempt?"

I tried not to smile. “I think she was going for ‘rage graffiti’ as a genre.”

Sloane huffed. “Great. Let me guess. Something real subtle? Like ‘homewrecker’ in spray paint?”

I suppressed a laugh. “It's in lipstick, actually."

"She wrote 'homewrecker' in lipstick?"

"No," I said, "if she'd tried, I bet she would have spelled it wrong. ‘Homwreckur.’”

She closed her eyes and muttered, “She’s out here threatening my life and she doesn't have the decency to use spell check?”

I shrugged. “Unhinged and illiterate. She also broke the glass.”

Her eyes widened and her gaze drilled into me. “Levi, I swear to God, if she touched Violet's Taylor Swift bumper sticker, this is war.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “Swift is intact. She must have known better.”

“Damn right she did,” Sloane said as she marched toward the kitchen. “Even psychopaths know there are lines you don’t cross.”

"I don't think the kids woke up thankfully." I followed her, "Sloane?"

Sloane pressed her lips together and exhaled shakily, holding her stomach instinctively. Our moment of levity, of using sarcasm and humor to keep the panic and fear at bay, had passed. The shadows seemed darker and the night felt closer.

“So what now, Levi? That could’ve been me. That could’ve been the kids.”

“It won’t be,” I said. “Detective Harlan said they had enough for a warrant before she went this far. The cameras would have recorded her smashing your window. She just made this so much easier for us, Sloane."

I reached for the kitchen chair and sat down hard. Rufus stayed tense as he paced the kitchen.

Sloane sat across from me, tired and pale. “We need to tell the kids something. They're going to notice the broken windshield.”

“I’ll get it cleaned up before they wake up," I said. "I’ll figure out what to tell them. You rest.”

She didn’t respond right away as she looked at me with an expression that was equal parts relief and dread. “I’m scared, Levi.”

I reached for her hand. “Me too. Get some rest Sloane. You need it.”

She nodded in agreement, "Okay."

Sloane went to bed as I stayed up cleaning the kitchen, anxiety high. Light filtered through the blinds in weak, gray sickly shadows across the kitchen floor.

My phone rang. An unknown number again. I answered on instinct hoping that it wasn't Angie.

“Mr. Shaw, this is Detective Harlan. I apologize for calling so early.”

You can call me anytime, I almost said as relief coursed through me.

I sat back down at the table, heart tightening as I hoped to hear the words I wanted. “Please tell me you have enough.”

A pause. Then a sigh, heavy and frustrated. “We did. But we’re on hold right now.”

“What?”

“The department’s operations changed overnight. You saw the announcement, didn’t you?”

I had. The president on every channel last night, speaking in that somber, measured voice no one trusted anymore .

My mouth went dry. “You’re telling me she’s free to do whatever she wants now?”

“She’s not free. She’s… not the department's priority. Not right now. Our resources are limited, Mr. Shaw, and the entire government's focus is on the public's health. We can’t move on her until we have full clearance from a judge. And with the shutdown-”

“I have kids,” I snapped. “I have a pregnant wife under this roof, and she’s stressed out about everything. You can't seriously expect us to believe that the police can't do anything?”

“I understand your frustration, but this goes above my pay grade." There was a pause and his tone was lower, "Listen. I’m not saying to stop documenting everything. Continue providing evidence, because the more we have and the more she escalates? The sooner we can act. But you need to keep your family safe. Don’t confront her. Don’t engage. For now… bunker down.”

Bunker down. Like this was a war zone. Maybe it was. With the world going to shit and Angie circling us like a shark, it felt like a dystopian nightmare.

I thanked him stiffly and hung up.

The phone buzzed again immediately. This time, not unknown. Angie's name flashed bright.

I hit Reject and waited expectantly. Three seconds later it rang again. And again. And again.

Voicemail pinged. I played it with trembling fingers.

Her voice slithered through the speaker, sugar-sweet and venom-laced. “I saw the news. Cops have their hands full don't they? Which means it’s just us now, baby. You, me, and the truth you’re too scared to tell Sloane.”

As I listened, I saw the ping for another voicemail then another .

My call log read like a horror story. Twenty missed calls. Fifteen voicemails. All in the last few minutes.

My fingers ached from the constant forwarding, each tap of the screen sending another piece of evidence to the detective I’d just spoken with. I could feel my resolve building with each message, the weight of everything piling up.

I need them to take this more seriously. If something happens to Sloane or the kids, I will never forgive myself.

I thought about Rufus then.

Yeah, I will strangle the bitch if she touches my dog.

I texted Detective Harlan again, the words burning with urgency.

She’s not going to stop, and the car was vandalized last night. Check the video I uploaded.

Detective Harlan here. I'll get this in front of a judge ASAP.

Footsteps broke my thoughts as I looked up. Sloane had walked in quietly, still in her robe, one hand resting against the counter.

"Did you sleep?" she asked gently.

"No."

Her eyes scanned my face, reading the words I was not ready to say, “You okay?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… the detective called.”

Her eyes searched mine. “And?”

“They’ve put the case on hold.”

She blinked. “What?”

“They said the shutdown changed everything. Limited staff. Focus is on public health now. ”

Sloane stared past me for a long moment, something in her hardening. “So, she gets away with it?.”

“Not forever,” I said, standing. “We’re not going to let her scare us. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you and the kids. Pandemic or not. I sent over last night’s video and the voicemails she left me. It’s got to be enough, and Harlan said he's going to try to get it in front of a judge.”

She nodded, "Okay."

My phone buzzed again on the counter. I silenced it and flipped it over.

But we both knew that didn’t stop her.