She left fast, her shoes squeaking on the diner floor. The bell over the door jingled as she disappeared into the rain.
Miles and I sat there staring at the envelope like it was radioactive.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number. This time it wasn’t a text.
It was a voicemail.
I hit play and held the phone to my ear, the diner noise falling away.
A man’s voice, low and amused, said, “You’re pulling threads that don’t belong to you. Stop, or your parents will finish what Kara started.”
My blood turned to ice, and I looked at Miles with my mouth open, unable to breathe.
Because whoever it was didn’t sound like Owen.
So who else had been inside my family’s life this whole time?
Part 8
We didn’t go straight home after the diner.
Miles drove like he was trying to outrun something, windshield wipers thumping a steady, angry rhythm. The city lights smeared across the wet road. My palms were damp, my phone heavy in my lap like it had gained weight from that voice.
“You saved the voicemail?” Miles asked, eyes fixed forward.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I saved it.”
“Good.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “We’re going to the detective. Now.”
The police station smelled like old paper and floor cleaner. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, like even the building was tired. The detective—Hollis—listened to the voicemail twice, his face flat.
“Do you recognize the voice?” he asked.
I shook my head. My throat felt scraped raw. “Not Owen. Not anyone I know.”
Hollis nodded, like that was both good and bad news. “We’ll run it. See if we can match it to anything. But burner numbers and voice distortion are common.”
“It didn’t sound distorted,” I said. “It sounded… close. Like he was smiling into the phone.”
Hollis slid the envelope from Tessa across his desk and flipped through the photocopies. His eyes paused on the notary stamp.
“This is helpful,” he said. “It shows intent beyond what we already have.”
Miles leaned forward. “What about the threat? Can you protect them?”
Hollis exhaled. “We can increase patrols near their new place. We can file for a protective order. But I’ll be honest—if this is someone outside Kara and Owen, someone connected, we need more than a voicemail to put cuffs on them.”
I hated how calm he was. I hated that he was right.
That night we slept at my parents’ new apartment.
Their place was smaller, quieter, too modern for them—white walls, clean lines, no history. My mom had tried to soften it with a throw blanket that smelled like fabric softener and lavender. My dad had already installed two carbon monoxide detectors, one in the hallway and one near the bedrooms, and he’d tested them in front of me like he needed me to witness it.
“See?” he said, pressing the button until it beeped sharp and loud. “Working.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Good.”
My mom watched us from the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug she hadn’t been drinking from. Her eyes kept drifting toward the door like she expected someone to knock.
In the middle of the night, I woke to a sound that didn’t belong.
A faint scrape. Like something sliding over concrete.
My heart launched into my throat. I held my breath and listened.
Another scrape.
Miles was already awake beside me, his hand lifting slightly in the dark, signaling me to stay still. The room smelled like warm laundry and fear.
He crept to the living room window and peered through the blinds. The streetlight outside cast pale stripes onto the floor.
I followed, my bare feet cold on the tile.
Outside, near my parents’ car, a figure moved quickly—hood up, shoulders hunched. They weren’t trying to break in. They weren’t trying to steal the car.
They were leaving something on the hood.
Then they turned and walked away, disappearing into the dim between streetlights.
Miles yanked the door open and ran out in socks, but by the time he reached the parking lot, the figure was gone. Only the wet night remained, smelling of rain and asphalt.
I stepped outside and felt the cold bite my skin.
On the car hood sat a small cardboard box.
No label. No return address.
Just my dad’s name written in block letters.
My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.
Inside was a brand-new carbon monoxide detector.
No batteries.
And on top of it, a sticky note with a single line:
Safety is fragile.
My mom made a small sound behind me, like a sob swallowed too fast.
Miles took the box from my hands and stared at the empty battery compartment, his jaw working like he was chewing rage.
“This is intimidation,” he said, voice low.
My dad stepped forward, his face hard in a way I’d never seen. “This is a message.”
I stared into the box until my vision blurred.
Because whoever had left it didn’t just want to scare us.
They wanted us to remember exactly how my parents almost died—over something as small as two missing batteries.
And now they knew where my parents slept.
So how many steps away were we from it happening again?
Part 9
The next morning, my dad insisted on going to the hardware store himself.
“I’m not hiding,” he said, pulling on his jacket with shaky determination. His voice was rougher than usual, like his throat still remembered the oxygen deprivation. “I refuse to live like prey.”
Miles offered to go instead. I offered. My mom practically begged.
My dad shook his head once. “I’m going.”
So we went as a unit—me, Miles, my parents—walking into the hardware store under harsh white lights that made everything look too sharp. The aisles smelled like lumber and plastic. Somewhere, a radio played classic rock quietly, cheerful in the wrong way.
My dad picked up two packs of batteries, held them up, and looked at me like he was making a point. “These,” he said. “This is what they thought would beat us.”
I swallowed hard. “Let’s just pay and go.”
At the counter, the cashier was a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a tape measure clipped to his belt. He scanned the batteries with a beep that sounded like punctuation.
Then his gaze slid past us and froze for half a second.
Not at my dad.
At Miles.
Something in the cashier’s face tightened like recognition.
Miles noticed. “Can I help you?” he asked calmly.
The cashier’s mouth opened, then closed again. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’re… with the Quinn family, right?”
My stomach clenched. “Yes,” I said. “Why?”
The cashier hesitated, then reached under the counter and pulled out a small spiral notebook—one of those cheap ones with a bent corner. He flipped a few pages with rough fingers.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I didn’t want to be involved.”
“Involved in what?” Miles asked.
The cashier tapped a page with his pen. “A guy came in here a few weeks back. Bought duct sealant, a flue vent kit, and asked about… how long it takes for fumes to build up in a closed house.”
My throat went cold.
The cashier glanced toward the aisle like he was afraid of being overheard. “He wasn’t asking like a homeowner. He was asking like… someone planning.”
“Did you get his name?” I whispered.
The cashier shook his head, then pointed at the notebook again. “But I wrote down the card type and the last four digits. My manager tells us to track weird transactions. He paid with a prepaid card. But he also used a loyalty account number for the discount.”
Miles’ eyes narrowed. “You have the number?”
The cashier nodded, then ripped out the page and slid it across the counter like a secret.
My hands shook as I took it. The paper smelled like ink and dust.
Hollis was at his desk when we showed up again. He took the page, studied it, then nodded once. “This could be something.”
Miles’ voice was steady. “The intimidation package last night means someone’s still active.”
Hollis leaned back, rubbing his temple. “We pulled Owen’s contact history. He had messages with a number saved as LEO HVAC. We assumed it was a contractor.”
My stomach flipped. “Leo?”
Hollis nodded. “We’re going to bring him in. If he’s the one who touched the furnace, he might be the voice on your voicemail. Or he might know who is.”
By the afternoon, Hollis called us in again.
Leo wasn’t what I pictured when I heard contractor. He wasn’t a burly man in worn boots. He was thin, sharp-faced, with neat hair and a clean jacket like he wanted to look respectable. He smelled faintly of cologne, not sweat.
He sat across from Hollis, legs crossed, and tried to smile like this was a misunderstanding.
“I do installs,” Leo said smoothly. “Repairs. Vent checks. Totally normal.”
Hollis slid a photo across the table: the loosened vent pipe.
Leo’s smile slipped. “I tightened that,” he said quickly. “I did. They said there was a rattle.”
“They?” Hollis asked.
Leo’s eyes flicked toward me and my parents, then away. “The fiancé. Owen. And the sister. Kara.”
My mom flinched like the name physically hurt her.
Hollis leaned in. “Why were you there when the homeowners weren’t present?”
Leo shrugged, too casual. “They said they had permission. They had keys.”
Hollis didn’t blink. “Did you disable alarms?”
Leo’s face changed. A flash of annoyance. Then fear. “No. I don’t touch alarms. That’s not my job.”
“But you saw them,” Hollis pressed. “Didn’t you.”
Leo’s jaw tightened. His eyes darted, calculating. “Kara told Owen the parents were ‘sensitive to noise.’ She said the beeping was driving them crazy. She joked about ‘silencing the nanny.’”
My stomach twisted.
“And?” Hollis said.
Leo exhaled sharply, like he was mad at himself for talking. “I saw Kara take the hallway detector off the wall. She popped the batteries out and put them in her pocket. I thought… whatever. People do dumb stuff. I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think two unconscious people might be connected to missing batteries?” Miles’ voice cut in, low and angry.
Leo’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t know! They told me they were upgrading. They told me it was safe.”
Hollis slid his phone across the table and played the voicemail.
Leo’s face went pale. “That’s not me,” he said fast. “That’s not my voice.”
Hollis watched him carefully. “Then who is it.”
