Page 8 of Tides of Change (Seacliff Cove #2)

Garrett whistled, low and long. “Eight books? That’s some imagination.”

My face heated, and I looked down, fiddling with the label on my bottle. Pride swelled in my chest despite myself. “I hope to keep going for at least eight more, as long as readers stick with me.” I shifted the focus. “But tell me about your job. I admire what you do.”

His stories were a mix of absurdity and heart, painting Seacliff Cove with vivid strokes.

The dog-crap feud between Frank and Martha had me laughing.

The flood of clueless tourists during the summer boggled my mind.

A rash of unsolved pranks plagued the town.

But it was the way Garrett spoke about his friends—Cooper at the coffee shop; Mason, the owner of the bookstore; Caleb, director of The Coastal Light Gallery; Declan, owner of the diner; and Landon, the manager of the boutique hotel—that struck me.

Fondness laced every word. I couldn’t help but envy those connections.

Under different circumstances, I would have liked to meet them.

Before I knew it, eleven o’clock was approaching.

Garrett stretched, the movement lazy and unguarded. “Excuse me.” His mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m usually in bed by now. Noah’s up early.”

My stomach dropped. Had I overstayed my welcome? I pushed to my feet, wiping my palms on my jeans. “Sorry for keeping you up.”

He stood and shook his head. A small smile curved his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I enjoyed this evening. Thanks for staying.” His voice was low and rough, each word wrapping around me. His blue eyes darkened, the shift so subtle I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t so attuned to him.

My pulse kicked up. Was I imagining the pull between us? Garrett took a hesitant step forward, and I held my breath. But then he veered toward the door. I followed, the disappointment sharper than I wanted to admit.

In the entryway, I slipped on my shoes. “Thanks for a fun evening. I had a good time,” I said softly. More than you know.

“We’ll, uh, do it again,” Garrett said, rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze darted to the floor before lifting to mine, uncertainty shadowing his usual confidence. “Maybe…without Noah next time?”

Was this his way of asking me out? Maybe that magnetic pull I’d been feeling wasn’t just in my head. A thrill ran through my stomach. “I’d like that,” I whispered. “See you again.” I twisted the knob and stepped out into the chilly night, my porch light a beacon in the dark.

I crossed the street, and my shoes scuffed softly against the pavement as the night wrapped around me.

The faint, rhythmic whoosh of distant waves provided a sense of calm as I walked up the path to my door.

When the motion-activated floodlight flared to life, its brightness splashed across the porch and illuminated an object resting on the welcome mat.

I sucked in a breath, and a frisson of fear snaked down my spine.

I slowed my steps, and my muscles tightened with a mix of dread and reluctant curiosity.

I squinted against the harsh light, and I willed it to be nothing more than a stray leaf blown in by the sea breeze.

But deep down, I knew better. I crept closer, my heartbeat hammering harder with every step until I halted at the edge of the doormat.

My lungs hitched as my gaze locked on the thing that waited for me.

It wasn’t a leaf.

My stomach clenched like a fist. I turned in a full circle and scanned the darkened street for any sign of movement.

Shadows stretched along the quiet road. My ears strained for the sound of footsteps, the rustle of leaves, anything—but the silence was absolute, except for the distant crash of waves.

I turned back to the thing on my porch. A costume Bowie knife—plastic blade smeared with thick, fake blood—the kind you’d find in a Halloween store.

It lay at an odd angle across the welcome mat, gleaming wetly under the floodlight as if it had just been used. My skin prickled, heat rising up the back of my neck before being chased away by a deep, chilling unease.

A knife.

The weapon the killer used in my fourth Jake Slate novel.

Was this a prank? Part of the rash of stunts Garrett had been talking about? If so, why was it left at my door?

A sour taste crept into my mouth. Was it something more ominous? Did I truly have a stalker, and this was a warning? A message that they’d found me, even across the country in sleepy Seacliff Cove?

I glanced over my shoulder; the floodlight cast my shadow long and distorted against the porch.

Across the street, Garrett’s house glowed with reassuring warmth.

His porch light was still on, like a lighthouse shining in the oppressive darkness.

My legs moved before my brain caught up, my hand tentatively reaching for the handle of the plastic knife as if the blade might slice me.

I plucked it up, the texture cold and unpleasant in my grasp, and crossed the street with my heart pounding in my ears.

I knocked lightly on Garrett’s door, my breathing shallow, my thoughts racing. What if this was nothing?

What if it was everything?

When Garrett opened the door, his smirk was instant. “We’re keeping the rest of the pop—” His words cut off, and he reared back, his expression twisting in horror. “What the fudge is that thing?”

“It’s a plastic knife painted with fake blood.” My voice came out steadier than I expected, though my chest still felt like it might implode. “I found it on my doormat. Is this the kind of prank you’ve been seeing?”

“Heck, no.” Garrett shook his head, his brows furrowing. “That’s just disturbing. We’ve had mailboxes filled with marshmallows, toilet-papered trees, rearranged yard decorations…that sort of thing. This doesn’t fit.”

My stomach churned, and a knot tightened. My muscles stiffened with the effort of holding myself together. This couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not now.

Would I have to run again?

No. Not yet. I forced air into my lungs, willing my cramped muscles to relax. “Would you keep an eye out for more incidents like this?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said, all business.

“Wait a sec.” He disappeared into the house and returned a moment later with a plastic bag, in full cop mode.

“Put that in here. I’ll take it to the station and show it around.

Ask if anyone else has seen anything like this. Ask everyone to be on the lookout.”

Relief flickered as I dropped the creepy toy into the bag. The weight of it was no longer in my hand, but its implications lingered. “Thanks,” I mumbled. “Let me know.” I recited my phone number. He sent me a text, so I had his number.

We said goodnight—again—and I retraced my steps across the street, the house feeling impossibly far away. My eyes darted toward every shadow, my breath quick and shallow.

When I reached my door, I unlocked it with trembling fingers and stepped inside. I closed the door with a muted thud , then reset my security system. I pressed my back to the solid wood.

What had just happened?

The question ricocheted in my mind, unanswered and relentless. My pulse thundered in my ears, and I swallowed hard, trying to force down the rising panic. Was it just a prank? A cruel joke? Or something more menacing?

Then a thought hit me—I retrieved my phone from my pocket and saw a security alert I must’ve missed while watching the movie. Shit. I pulled up the camera feed.

There.

My breath hitched. At nine-sixteen p.m., a hooded figure stepped into view.

The black-and-white footage revealed little—the hood obscured the face and a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants concealed the body.

It could have been a man or a tall woman.

They bent, placed the knife on the doormat, and vanished into the darkness.

I texted Garrett, quickly summarizing what I’d found. His reply came almost instantly:

Send me the footage.

My fingers trembled as I attached and sent the video, urgency sitting like a weight on my chest. There was a long pause, then:

I’ll see if anyone recognizes them.

The silence in my house felt heavier than ever, and I told myself the shiver crawling up my spine was just the chilly night air.

I lied.