Page 2 of Tides of Change (Seacliff Cove #2)
CHAPTER TWO
Ethan
As I juggled my pumpkin spice latte and keys, adrenaline prickled the back of my neck.
It was irrational—Seacliff Cove was a quiet town, the very definition of safe—but the faint, ever-present sense of being watched had followed me here.
It settled around me like a thin fog. I quickly opened my front door.
With a breath to steady myself, I pushed it shut and slid the deadbolt home.
The cold metal thudded into place with a satisfying click .
I held it there for a moment longer than necessary, just until my heartbeat slowed.
A home security company was due this afternoon to install a system, and I’d feel safer when that was done.
I threw my ball cap—my poor attempt at a disguise—onto the back of the couch.
The slip-covered ivory sofa was not my style, but the furniture was functional and comfortable.
I’d only had a few requirements when I hired the property manager to furnish the house for me: a quality mattress to sleep on, a sturdy desk to work at, and an ergonomic desk chair that wouldn’t ruin my back.
Everything else that mattered—my laptop, research materials, a few clothes—I’d brought with me. I’d had to leave my Keurig behind.
I took a sip of my coffee, which had cooled but still delivered a soothing blend of cinnamon and nutmeg.
I grinned at the deputy sheriff’s reaction to my pumpkin spice latte.
Maybe I shouldn’t have engaged, since my goal was to stay as invisible as possible.
But Garrett Whitlock had broken through the caution I’d wrapped around myself.
The amusing, gregarious man had gotten past my defenses.
The tight grip of his handshake had been like electricity zipping up my arm, like a lightning bolt to my chest. And his piercing blue eyes had mesmerized me. Had I seen a spark of interest in his gaze?
It was probably wishful thinking. I’d seen him across the street with his son, his adorable carbon copy.
While making an assumption about someone’s sexual orientation was inappropriate and most likely inaccurate, I couldn’t help but think he was straight.
I’d seen a woman let herself into the house—was she the boy’s mother?
But I knew one thing for sure. Garrett hated pumpkin spice lattes. With a passion. I snorted a laugh into the silent house.
He probably drank coffee as pitch black as the night I saw him peeking through his blinds at me. I’d abruptly left New York on Saturday night and had arrived in Seacliff Cove in the early hours of Sunday morning.
No one in New York knew I was here. No one.
I’d texted my neighbor on Sunday and asked him to keep an eye on my apartment.
I’d broken up with my boyfriend months ago, so I didn’t owe him an explanation.
My editor lived in the city, but we usually worked via email.
And my family thought I was on a writing retreat. I was here until the threat passed.
If there was a threat, and I wasn’t simply being paranoid.
But I couldn’t deny I’d had strange things happen, things related to the series of thrillers I’d written.
A black feather on my doorstep mimicked the calling card of the murderer in my first Jake Slate novel.
Just a random feather, I’d tried to tell myself.
Someone could have tracked it in on their shoe.
But then, there was the copy of my second book on my usual coffee shop table, lying open at a scene in which the killer spied on the victim through binoculars.
My spine had tingled at the reference. Next was the cryptic flyer left on my windshield from the clearly made-up Mr. Lee’s Trees.
It echoed the victim of my third novel, a landscaper named Lee.
I’d called the phone number on the paper, but it was disconnected.
Was the flyer an innocent advertisement and the phone number an honest typo? I shuddered. It might not have been.
Separately, I could have dismissed each occurrence. But all together… A chill coursed down my body and left goosebumps in its wake. The references had given me an escalating sense of dread and hinted at a familiarity not just with my books but with my home and habits.
And then there had been the final straw—a sticky note on my apartment door that read, Guess who’s next .
I clutched my cup tightly, and it threatened to crush in my hand.
I’d spent hours down a rabbit hole of rental listings, casting a wide net across the country—big cities, sleepy towns, anywhere far from the threat.
Dozens of applications were sent into the void.
The first reply? A Realtor in a tiny coastal town I’d never heard of—Seacliff Cove, California.
One email later, I had a lease. Just like that, I was on a flight to San Francisco.
I moved through the house, my footsteps thudding on the hardwood floor. The quiet amplified every sound—the soft hum of the fridge, the cry of a distant seagull. I left the neutral-toned living room, the bare walls a contrast to the colorful, overfilled shelves of my apartment in Brooklyn.
I pushed open the door to the back bedroom I’d turned into my makeshift office, furnished sparsely with a standard desk, an adjustable lamp, and an ergonomic desk chair. My laptop and file folders sat on the desk, a comforting reminder of home, even if it felt strange to have them here.
I placed my latte on the desk and dropped into the chair.
I stared at the laptop, closed and silent, rubbed my eyes, and pushed down the dread.
This was supposed to be my sanctuary, the place where I could pour my thoughts into words, into Jake’s world.
Writing was my escape, my calling, and more than that, my career.
I’d been one of the lucky ones. My books reached readers around the world.
But today, layers of unease buried the joy I usually felt.
Was someone out there studying each word, analyzing my plots, and taking them to heart in ways I’d never imagined?
Had I met them in passing at a book-signing, or maybe exchanged emails, only to have them fixate on my work?
If I kept writing, would it feed their obsession and pull me deeper into their twisted reality? Would it ever end? If so, how?
My books featured stalking, kidnapping…and murder.
I shivered despite my sweatshirt and wrapped my arms around myself.