Page 46 of Walking Away

By the time they hung up, Izzy had made up her mind. She’d take her two-week vacation and go to Sylva. They needed a plan—a real one—to turn chaos into something resembling normal.

Her eyes drifted to the sleek silver laptop in front of her. It didn’t feel like hers. The old one—stolen in the break-in—had been part of her life for years. Replacing it had been more than inconvenient; it had been agony. The setup had taken forever, two full days of progress bars crawling as files trickled back from the cloud.

She rubbed her temple, staring at the faint scratches on the new keyboard. Luna leapt onto the chair, settling beside her. Izzy reached out absently, fingers brushing the cat’s fur as she whispered,Soon, sweetheart. We’ll both get a break.Marla’s already promised to spoil you rotten while I’m gone.”

A spiral notebook lay beside her, filled with notes and flight options—plans for her trip to Sylva.

Darcy

Darcy came home from the museum, the bag heavy on her shoulder as she kicked the door closed behind her. At first, everything seemed normal.

A faint, acrid scent hit her—cigarette smoke. Not just any smoke, but Jason’s brand. Sobranie Black Russian: black paper, gold tips. The smell was as sharp and arrogant as the man himself. Her stomach turned.

She scanned the cottage, nerves cinching. She crept to the kitchen and yanked the largest knife from the block, cursing herself for leaving her gun in the Jeep’s glove box.

Each step deliberate, she moved through the rooms—checking doors, windows, corners—anywhere someone could hide. Nothing. Everything looked untouched—the screws she’d driven into the windowsills still in place. Unease clung like cobwebs she couldn’t brush away.

Her hands shook as she pulled the phone from her bag. Her fingers moved quickly, checking the emergency contacts she’d programmed months ago—Izzy, the sheriff’s office, and Emma—each one a reminder she wasn’t powerless. She sat in the living room, phone clutched in her hand, counting each slow breath until the edge of panic dulled.

She forced herself to eat something, though each bite was tasteless.

Afterward, she showered, hoping the hot water would wash the tension away. But halfway through rinsing her hair, she froze, sure eyes were on her. A cold jolt rattled her. She yanked the shower curtain back. Empty.

Quickly, she toweled off. The mirror fogged with steam. When she wiped it clear, she thought she saw a shadow behind her—a figure, sharp and dark—but when she spun, the bathroom was empty. Just the slow drip of water.

Pull yourself together,she whispered.

She moved room to room again. Bolt. Latch. Lock.

In the kitchen, she poured another small drink, hoping the warmth would steady her. She sat in the living room, counting until the edge of panic dulled.

Eventually, she slid into bed. The sheets felt cool against her skin, exhaustion tugging at her eyelids. The alcohol blurred her thoughts, softening the edges of the room. Just as sleep began to take hold, she felt it?—

The faintest dip in the mattress. Too deliberate to be her imagination.

A cold shock ran through her, freezing her in place.

Seconds stretched. And then—inch by inch—her eyes flicked open.

Jason.

He sat inches from her, perfectly composed, his tailored shirt crisp even in the shadows—that smile—smooth once, now wrong.

Her scream caught. She thrashed, but his hand clamped over her mouth—calm, controlled, suffocating.

She clawed at his hand?—

And found nothing there.

No Jason. No weight.

Just her own sheets twisted around her as she bolted upright, damp hair clinging to her neck.

But the acrid tang of Sobranie smoke still clung to the air—stubborn, invasive, as though it had seeped into the walls. Her thoughts blurred, caught between nightmare and waking.

Even awake, she couldn’t shake it. Worse, the silence of the cottage felt too still.

Was it possible she’d dreamed him? Or had the dread followed her into daylight?