Page 4 of Shadows of Obsession

His voice dropped, cold and final. "Find her."

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, a slow smile curving his lips. She thought distance would save her. Thought she could disappear and he'd just let her go.

She was wrong.

She belonged to him. She just didn't understand that yet. But she would. Eventually, they all did.

"She won't get far," he murmured to the empty street, his breath misting in the cold air.

The game was on.

And Daniel Hawthornenever lost.

CHAPTER 1

Anna

The first light of dawn bled across the horizon as I rolled into the sleepy tourist town of Warren, Wyoming. The hum of the truck's engine was the only steady thing in my life. A low, constant sound that soothed the chaos still burning in my chest. The past few days blurred together: highways, gas stations, cheap motel rooms that all smelled faintly of bleach and fear.

I'd tried to stay away from here at first, wanting to protect Connor from the same fate that had befallen Sam. After I left Daniel, he'd taken his anger out on her. He knew she would have helped me escape. He knew that if anyone knew where I was, it would be her.

So he killed her.

That's what her family and I believed, anyway. When her body was found and the cause of death was ruled a homicide, I called the local police and told them everything. Daniel's anger issues, his abuse, the fact that Sam was my best friend and had helped me get away from him. But it didn't matter. Daniel was never arrested, only questioned. His family's influence protected him.

So, I'd traveled from Vermont through different states, staying only in random Airbnb rentals or motels I'd pull up to late at night. Until I found the diner in Kansas.

The studio apartment I'd rented on Airbnb happened to be above that diner. When I went down for lunch one day, there was a HelpWanted sign in the window—faded, torn at the edges, looking like it had seen better days. I recognized the shared weariness in both the sign and myself.

I talked to the owner, who also owned the apartment, and we came to an agreement: I'd work in the diner in exchange for room and board. I knew I'd planned to go to Connor's. I knew that's what Sam would have wanted but Sam was dead now from Daniel’s hands. And I was so tired of doing what everyone else wanted me to do after living under his rules.

It worked out. Until it didn't.

For four months, I was able to live there. I wasn't happy, and it wasn't permanent, but it was better than the two months I spent driving from hotel to hotel across the country on an endless chase. I started to let myself believe that I could begin my life over there. Cindy, the owner, was kind and motherly. I think she saw through my façade. She knew I was running from something, and she let me stay anyway.

But one day, a package showed up for me, which didn't make sense. No one knew where I was. I hadn't told Connor where I was, let alone that I'd stopped in Kansas to work off rent instead of going to him. So when the package arrived, I felt the cold certainty in my gut: He'd found me.

And if the package wasn't clue enough, coming down the stairs in my rush to get to my truck, and seeing Cindy's dead body outside the back entrance of the diner, was.

I saw him through the window inside the diner, and I had just enough time for the fear to flood my body and freeze me in place before he saw me, too. The second I registered his body moving toward the door, instinct took over, and I finished running the rest of the way to my truck.

I don't know how, but I made it—and I just drove. I went well over the speed limit and didn't stop for hours, taking the highway, then detouring onto back roads and changing directions to reach a different interstate.

I'd tossed my cell phone into a rest-stop trash can somewhere in Iowa. Watching it disappear beneath the crumpled wrappers had felt strangely ceremonial, like cutting the last wire still tethering me tohim. It was the only way he could have tracked me. Without looking back, the phone was gone. He was gone.

Or at least, that's what I kept telling myself, forcing the reassurance through the residual tremor in my hands.

As I drove deeper into the heart of the town, I found myself captivated by its rustic charm. The quaint storefronts and tree-lined streets were a far cry from the gritty urban sprawl I'd left behind. Nestled snugly in the valley, Warren was a postcard-perfect vision of small-town America, a place where time seemed to move at a different pace and the outside world felt a million miles away.

I thought, watching the locals go about their business, that this felt like a place that could heal people. Maybe it would heal me.

Everywhere I looked, I was greeted by breathtaking vistas, the towering mountain ranges encircling the town painted a picturesque backdrop from every angle. It was a place of untamed wilderness and rugged beauty, a stark contrast to the suffocating confines of the cities I'd passed through.

Despite its remote location, Warren boasted a tight-knit community, a place where locals welcomed tourists and newcomers alike with open arms. They understood the delicate balance between their livelihoods and the transient population. The ebb and flow of visitors that sustained their way of life through the vibrant summer and winter months.

As I made my way down Main Street, I couldn't help but marvel at the array of businesses that lined the road, each one a testament to the town's self-sufficiency. From the well-stocked bookstore to the quaint clothing boutiques and the cozy grocery, Warren had everything a person could need, whether they were just passing through or putting down roots.

At the end of the street, the town offices stood proud and imposing, a reminder of the community's commitment to law and order. The police department, library, and city hall were all housed side by side, a hub of activity that served as the beating heart of the town.