Page 22 of Straight to You

RYDER

T he drive to my house feels longer than usual. We haven’t been here since the second email came, and we decided we should probably make sure everything’s okay. My brain is in overdrive, cycling through every possible scenario, and none of them are good.

What if he broke in? What if it’s not just words this time? What if he’s waiting for us? What if my stuff’s been stolen or trashed? What if, what if, what if…

I try to convince myself it’ll be fine, but the knot in my stomach says otherwise. Because if his goal is to freak me out, he’s done a damn good job, but there’s no way I’m going to let him see that. I prefer to do all my spiraling in front of Logan and Logan only.

As much as I try to stay rational, I can’t shake the tightness in my chest. I shouldn’t feel this anxious pulling up to my own house, but I do, and that alone feels wrong.

When I park in the driveway, everything looks the same as when I left it.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe windows shattered, my front door hanging open, a giant neon sign saying, ‘he’s been here,’ but none of that was there.

I’m sure that if something had been vandalized, one of my neighbors would have called me or the police.

Still, that does nothing to quiet the unease gripping my throat.

Logan glances over and takes my hand. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Truly the dream we’re living,” he deadpans.

We get out of the car and walk to the front door. As I turn the key, I hesitate for a second before pushing it open. To my relief, everything looks the same, but something still feels off, even though I’m sure it’s probably in my head.

My eyes scan the living room like I’ve never seen it before, searching for anything that looks out of place or wrong. But everything looks to be exactly how I left it. Or close enough that I can’t tell it’s different.

Logan is standing beside me, doing his own sweep of the space. “Looks the same to me,” he says after a beat. His voice is calm, but his shoulders are tense like he’s waiting for something to jump out at us.

“Yeah,” I say, though nothing about this feels particularly fine. It’s almost worse that everything looks untouched, as if the danger is hiding just out of sight.

“I’m gonna check the office.”

Logan nods and falls into step beside me as I head down the hallway. The floor creaks under our feet like it’s warning someone we’re here, which is insane because this is my house, though it doesn’t feel like it right now.

The door to my office is ajar, which is probably how I left it. Slowly, I push it open and step inside. My desk is still a disaster of books, notes, and the coffee mug I left from the last morning I was here. It’s all exactly how I remember it, and I keep reminding myself that’s a good thing.

“Nothing looks out of place,” I confirm to Logan.

He steps in behind me, his hand brushing my arm, and it settles something in my chest. “Let’s check your desk anyway,” he says, peering at the mess. “You know, just in case the stalker decided to alphabetize your sticky notes.”

I snort. “Sorry, I didn’t deep clean after being emotionally terrorized by my stalker.”

“Oh, I’m not judging,” he says, lips twitching, clearly judging.

“Insult my desk again and I’ll make you organize it,” I warn.

He leans in a little, voice dropping just enough to be flirty. “You know I’d do anything if you ask nicely.”

I look at him, raising an eyebrow. “This feels like the strangest version of foreplay.”

He huffs out a laugh at that. “Is it weird that I’m kind of into it?”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh as I turn back to the desk. “You’re crazy.”

“And yet, you still want me.”

“I do, and that seems to be the real mystery here,” I mutter, reaching for a stack of papers while he chuckles behind me.

He’s probably not wrong to check my desk; it’s a mess, and this person is obsessed with my work.

Wanting to get this over quickly, I start sifting through all my papers, and then my fingers freeze because there’s no way I’m seeing what I’m seeing right now .

Tucked beneath my keyboard is a folded piece of paper with my name written on it in black ink.

“Logan, please tell me you put this here as some sort of fucked up prank,” I beg.

But he didn’t, I know he didn’t. I’ve never seen this handwriting before, and it’s not his. My pulse starts pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

The paper is in my hand, and I don’t want to unfold it. I don’t want to read the words on the inside, but I have to. Logan comes over and wraps his arm around my waist, steadying me.

I finally get the courage to open it, and it feels like someone knocked the wind out of me as I start to read.

“You sound so perfect when you read to me in here. But soon, you’ll be able to read directly to me—no more mics or distractions. I have a special place just for us. We’ll be together soon. Everything’s falling into place.”

The room tilts, and I’m convinced the floor is truly opening up below my feet, swallowing me whole. My knees go weak for a second, and Logan’s grip on me tightens before I lose my balance entirely.

“Ryder?” His voice sounds panicked.

But I can’t look away from the words—each one scrawled like a twisted promise. He’s been here in my house. It’s confirmed. We need to go. I need to get the fuck out of here. Every part of me is screaming to run.

I swallow hard. “Logan…please, let’s go. Now.”

He takes the paper from my death grip and puts it in his pocket. “Do you need anything before we leave?” he asks, and I barely hear him through my panic. “We’re not coming back until this is all over.”

But I can’t get my mouth to open to respond. My feet feel rooted to the floor, even as my brain is yelling at me to move. All I can think about is how he got in. When he got in. How long he was here. How long he’s been watching.

Shit…is he watching now? Is he in the house now? We need to go.

I finally shake my head in response to Logan’s question because I still can’t get words out.

He slides his fingers through mine and pulls me toward the front door.

Outside, he reaches into my pocket for my keys and locks the door behind us, even though it feels pointless.

He already knows how to get in. What good is a lock now?

He doesn’t say anything else as he guides me to the car and opens the passenger door. I climb in without a word. When he gets behind the wheel, I see his eyes flick obsessively to the rearview mirror as we pull away to see if anyone is following us.

“I think we should go straight to the police station,” he says.

I turn my head, raising an eyebrow, but the words still won’t come.

“They probably won’t do much,” he mutters, his jaw tight with frustration. “But they can at least look at the handwriting. This one feels more threatening. Don’t cops have someone who analyzes stuff like that? Maybe they’ll take it more seriously this time with physical proof.”

I stare out the windshield as Logan takes a turn away from his apartment and toward the station. I’m not sure what the police can do, but I don’t know what else we can do. His coworker still hasn’t been able to find anything yet .

“Yeah, okay. Let’s try,” I say, giving in.

After a few moments of tense silence, his right hand drops from the wheel, reaching across the center console to rest on my thigh.

The warmth of his palm seeps through my jeans, and without thinking, I reach down and place my hand over his, holding it there.

His grip tightens slightly, just enough to let me know he notices.

We ride in silence until we arrive at the police station, and the nerves that never entirely dissipated come rushing back in full force.

I don’t want to be here. At all. It feels like they haven’t taken any of this seriously the last few times Logan updated them.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a man or because there hasn’t been anything explicitly threatening in the emails, but either way, I always hate how I feel when we talk to the police.

Logan lets out a deep breath, his hand slipping away from my thigh as he parks, and I want to grab it and put it back where it belongs.

“You ready?” he asks, turning to face me.

I nod because I know we have to do this whether I want to or not.

We step out of the car and head toward the station’s entrance. Logan’s hand brushes against my lower back as we walk in, and he leans in to whisper in my ear, “I got you, Ry. Promise.”

Those few words are exactly what I need to hear before we walk in. The officer at the front desk barely looks up as we approach. “Can I help you?”

Logan clears his throat. “We need to report a case of harassment, stalking, and breaking and entering. My friend here has been receiving threatening messages, and we just found a note inside his house. Someone had to have broken in to leave it there. We’ve reported multiple other incidents already for this case. ”

The officer straightens slightly, his eyes flicking between us. “Alright. Let’s get some more details. Come on back.”

He buzzes us through the metal door, and we walk into the back of the department. The officer leads us into a small meeting room with an old metal table, and it feels like we’re the ones about to be interrogated.

He gestures for us to sit. “You mentioned you’ve already got a case started. Who have you been working with?”

We go over some of the standard details—our names, the officer’s name—who is, of course, not working today—the case number, a brief overview of the past emails, and the note.

“Alright, thanks for getting me up to speed. Since Office Donnelly is off today, I want to introduce you to someone who I think can help. According to your case file, he’s been the one looking into the emails for your case. Give me a moment to get him back here.”

Then he radios for someone named Pearson to come to room three.