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.”
