Page 12 of Tides of Change (Seacliff Cove #2)

CHAPTER TEN

Garrett

I knocked on Ethan’s door at six sharp, the warm bag of takeout releasing mouthwatering aromas of char-broiled beef, tangy barbecue sauce, and crispy fried potatoes into the evening air.

In the crook of my arm, four chilled bottles of craft beer clinked together.

I adjusted my grip, suddenly very aware of the tightness in my shoulders.

It wasn’t just the weight of the food—it was the weight of the conversation we were about to have.

The door opened, and Ethan stood there with a hesitant smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His face looked pale, the usual spark in his expression dulled by…fear, maybe.

I lifted the bag, putting on my best attempt at an easygoing grin. “Special delivery from Barnacle Brews.”

His smile widened, genuine this time. “Bringing our evening out…in?”

“Exactly.” He moved back, and I stepped inside and kicked off my sneakers near the door. I looked around for direction. “This way?” I asked, gesturing toward a door off the living room.

“Yeah.” He closed the door behind me and locked it with a firm twist.

I crossed the living room and entered the kitchen. A teak table sat tucked into the corner, its polished surface reflecting the soft glow of the overhead light. I grabbed a paper towel from a roll on the counter and placed the greasy bag on it.

Ethan inhaled deeply. “Something smells good.”

“I brought a cheeseburger, a barbecue pulled pork sandwich, and fries. Take your pick, and I’ll eat the other choice.”

Ethan grabbed a couple of plates from the cabinet and slid them onto the table. “I’ll take the pulled pork.”

We worked in unspoken sync, unpacking the food and popping the caps off the IPAs. The sound of clinking bottles and rustling paper filled the space. The moment felt normal, comfortable.

As we sat down and dug in, I kept my tone casual but firm. “Enjoy your dinner because you’re coming clean afterward.”

The words sounded harsher than I had intended. I winced as Ethan choked on a bite of his sandwich and his face went red. He reached for his beer to wash it down.

“Sorry.” I softened my voice. “Didn’t mean for that to sound like a threat.”

He shook his head and gave me a wry smile. “It’s fine. You’re not wrong.”

I changed the subject to lighten the mood. “I finished reading the first Jake Slate book. That plot twist at the end? Didn’t see it coming.”

His face lit up, and the glow of it hit me square in the chest. I hadn’t realized how much I missed seeing him animated and confident. “Glad you liked it! I’d give you book two, but I didn’t bring books with me when I came here. Traveled light.”

The mention of his arrival in the wee hours of the morning sobered me. “I guess that’ll happen when you move across the country with only two suitcases.”

Ethan’s smile faltered, and a flush crept up his neck.

I instantly regretted the reminder. “Sorry,” I muttered. “That was insensitive.” I mentally kicked myself. Again.

He waved it off, though his voice was quieter. “It’s okay.” He hesitated, then added, “I worked out my plot point, though. The walk we took helped clear my head.”

“I’m glad.” I casually leaned back, trying to ease the mood again.

“What did you do this week?” He dunked a fry in ketchup.

“The usual—helped old ladies cross the street, tied knots, set up camping tents…”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, exactly what I’d been hoping for. “Boy Scout,” he teased.

“So,” I said, leaning back in my chair with a grin, “if I’m the Boy Scout in this setup…what are you? And how’d you end up writing about murder and mayhem?”

Ethan smirked as he wiped his hands on a napkin. “You mean besides the obvious darkness lurking beneath this mild-mannered exterior?”

I chuckled. “Exactly.”

He took a long sip from his bottle, then set it down. His thumb ran along the label like he was thinking through his answer.

“I write thrillers,” he said finally, “because I’ve always liked puzzles. Even as a kid, I wanted to know how things fit together.”

He sat back, his body loose but his voice careful. “Thrillers let me explore that. You start with a mess—something bloody or brutal or broken—and you peel it apart, layer by layer. You get to make sense of chaos, even if just for a few hundred pages.”

I watched him for a beat. He wasn’t putting on a show. This wasn’t a press interview answer. It was quieter than that. More real.

“Was there something that made you want to start?” I asked.

He hesitated. “I guess… I wanted to know why people make the choices they do. Especially the bad ones. Writing let me ask the question without having to live the answers.”

I nodded slowly. “Makes sense. You’re the one shining the flashlight into the dark corners.”

Ethan’s smile was small but real. “I like that.”

We finished eating and cleaned up together in a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural.

Then, with beers in hand, we settled onto the couch in the living room.

The soft cushions dipped under our combined weight as we sat side-by-side, and our thighs brushed.

I shifted away, but not by much. I suspected he would need support and comfort during the coming conversation.

I set my bottle on the coffee table with a clink and pulled out my phone. I clicked on a notes app and poised my thumbs over the keyboard. “Tell me everything,” I ordered.

Ethan’s brow furrowed as his gaze flicked to the phone in my hands. “Is that necessary?”

“Yes,” I said, unyielding. “If I can’t convince you to file a report, then at least I’ll have the details for myself.

” What I didn’t tell him was that I’d unofficially put the word out to watch for anything suspicious.

But darn it, I didn’t want this to stay unofficial.

This needed a proper investigation. “Start from the beginning. Dates, times, events. Everything.”

Ethan exhaled, his breath shaky. “I think it all began Tuesday, four weeks ago,” he said, low. “I found a black feather at the door to my apartment around two in the afternoon.”

A chill ran down my spine, and I straightened, my thumbs hovering over the screen. “Like the feather the assassin used as a calling card in your first Jake Slate novel?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and his hands curled into tight fists on his thighs, knuckles white. “Yes. But I thought I was being paranoid. Someone could’ve carried it in on their shoe.”

“But…” I prompted.

He brought me up to speed on the other creepy gifts.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and my scalp tingled. Taken separately, each incident could be dismissed as a coincidence, but together, they painted a darker picture.

I asked gently, “What made you leave the city?”

Ethan didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was debating whether or not to say the words aloud. Then he exhaled—quiet, resigned—and met my gaze.

“I found a sticky note on my door that read, Guess who’s next .”

The words hit me like a punch to the sternum. I reared back, every protective instinct firing at once. “Fudge, Ethan,” I said, my voice low. “That’s not just creepy. That’s a threat.”

He gave a shrug and slid his gaze away from mine. “It was the final straw.”

“So, you packed up and left.”

Ethan nodded. “Yes. In less than twenty-four hours.” His voice was a whisper, heavy with exhaustion and fear.

“Who knows you’re here?”

“No one. Not even my family.”

I exhaled sharply and anger bubbled beneath my surface. “Was the plastic knife next?”

He hesitated. “Well, maybe. Did anyone else report pranks like that?”

I hated to be the one to crush any hope he might’ve had. “No. We caught the kids who’d been pulling those stunts. They swore they didn’t do it.”

His shoulders sagged, and he grabbed his beer, gulping it like a man desperate for courage. “A knife is the murder weapon in my fifth book.”

I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes. “Anything else?”

His hands trembled as he placed the empty bottle back on the table. “Yesterday, at The Coffee Cove, I got an email from an account called EyeSeeYou.” His voice wavered, and he shuddered visibly.

“Forward it to me.” A low growl slipped into my tone. “We don’t have a tech department at the station, but I’ll send it to headquarters.” I frowned. I already anticipated the delay; forensics was perpetually backlogged.

He took his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and my phone dinged with a notification.

“That’s everything I’ve got to give you.

You already have the video of the door cam from the evening they left the knife, but you can’t see much.

Just a vague person in baggy sweats.” His tired voice sounded like he’d reached his limit for the evening.

“I just don’t understand why anyone would stalk me,” Ethan said, his voice tight with confusion. “I can’t think of a single encounter—no angry fan, no confrontation—that would push someone over the edge like this.”

He ran a hand through his hair and let it fall limply to his side.

“I mean…I’m just an author. My life’s so routine it borders on boring.

As Ethan Cole, I’m openly gay. But under the Ethan Quinn pen name?

I keep my personal life private. He doesn’t talk about sexuality.

He doesn’t really talk about anything but the books. ”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, searching. “Do you think this could be about that? Homophobia?” He exhaled and spread his hands in helpless frustration. “Honestly, who even knows that Ethan Quinn is Ethan Cole? It’s a short list.”

I shook my head. “Nothing about this feels like a hate crime. No slurs. No targeted messaging. It’s all been about your work—your stories, your characters. Whoever this is, they’re fixated on your writing.”

That didn’t seem to offer him any comfort.

Ethan’s shoulders sagged like the weight of it all had finally pressed too hard. “Then why does it still feel so personal?”

Watching him try to make sense of something senseless, I wished I could give him an answer.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” I straightened my spine.

“First thing Monday morning, I’m going to type up your statement.

I’ll pick you up mid-morning, bring you to the station to sign it, and open an investigation.

Then I’ll bring you home.” I raised an eyebrow, daring him to contradict me.

Ethan sighed heavily, but he nodded.

The resignation in his expression cut me deeply. “You’re not going anywhere alone. As your friend, I’ll accompany you to the grocery store and anywhere else you need to go. We’ll even pick up pumpkin spice lattes.” I grinned, trying to lighten the edict.

His mouth opened, likely to argue, but I cut him off with a raised finger. “Not up for debate.”

He shook his head and said firmly, “I can’t endanger you and Noah by being seen with you.”

“I can take care of myself, and I’ll have my sister look after Noah. He’ll enjoy spending extra time with Auntie Harper.” And as a bonus, I’d get to spend extra time with Ethan. Too bad it was under such circumstances.

I rose from the couch and tucked my phone into my pocket. I grabbed our empties and wandered into the kitchen to dump them in the recycling bin. “Call me immediately if anything else happens.” Ethan followed me to the front door, where I slipped into my shoes.

I turned back to him, and the sight of his ashy, drawn face twisted my gut. I gripped his arms gently. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” I said quietly. “We’re going to catch this person.”

He didn’t respond, just nodded mutely. His vulnerability hit me like a punch to my already twisty gut, and without thinking, I put an arm around his shoulders in a bro hug. He whimpered.

I wrapped both arms around him and pulled him closer. Hard chest to hard chest. My pulse picked up.

He stiffened, but after a moment, he circled my waist and laid his head on my shoulder.

And it felt…right. Grounding. I enjoyed having Ethan in my arms, tight against me.