Chapter 15 – Shadows in Daylight
Morning light crept through the thin curtains, turning the living room into a wash of gray and gold. Erica hadn't slept. She sat at the kitchen table with a mug that had gone cold hours ago, staring at the phone on the counter. The message was still there: Nice reunion. No number, no profile photo—just that line and a timestamp.
Dylan came in quietly, hair still damp from the shower. He looked as though he hadn't slept either.
"Coffee?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Can't swallow anything. I keep thinking about that message."
He picked up the phone, reading it again. "Whoever sent it was close enough to see us. That means they were here—last night."
Erica wrapped her arms around herself. "The police said they'd patrol. Did you see them?"
"Once, around three," he said. "After that, nothing." He set the phone down carefully, like it might explode if he pressed too hard. "I'm going to the station this morning. They need to trace the number, check the cell-tower data."
Erica looked up, eyes red but sharp. "And what if it's Ryan? You think he'd use his own phone?"
Dylan hesitated. "Maybe not. But he'd slip up somewhere. They all do."
The way he said it made her shiver.
He turned to the window; sunlight flashed on the wet grass outside. For a moment, the world looked normal again—birds, the hum of distant traffic—but the quiet between them said otherwise.
"Lock the doors when I go," he said. "Don't open for anyone."
She nodded. "I'll be fine."
He didn't believe her, and she knew it.
---
At the police station, the same older officer from the night before met Dylan in the hallway.
"Morning," the officer said, rubbing his temples. "You said there was another message?"
Dylan handed him the phone. The officer studied the screen, lips tightening. "This wasn't sent through a normal carrier. Looks like a virtual number. Could be overseas."
"So you can't trace it?"
"Not easily. We can request a warrant to track the IP, but that'll take time."
Dylan's patience thinned. "Time is what he's using. She's terrified, and whoever this is knows where she lives."
The officer's gaze softened. "We'll do what we can. In the meantime, you might think about somewhere safer for a few days. Family, maybe."
"She won't leave," Dylan said. "She thinks running means losing."
"Sometimes surviving means leaving," the officer replied quietly.
---
Back at the house, Erica had drawn all the curtains. The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded too loud, like a reminder of how slowly safety returns once it's gone. She opened her laptop, trying to distract herself, and froze.
An email notification blinked at the corner of the screen.
Subject: You look better when you're scared.
Her breath hitched. She clicked it before she could stop herself. There was a photo attached—taken from outside the window. She could see herself clearly, sitting at the table just now, coffee mug in hand.
For a moment she couldn't breathe. Then her body reacted before her mind caught up—she slammed the laptop shut, stumbled back, grabbed her phone, and dialed Dylan.
He answered on the second ring. "Hey, I'm at the station—"
"There's another picture," she gasped. "Dylan, he's outside. He's watching now."
---
Dylan's chair scraped back hard. "Get away from the windows. Now." He was already running for the door. "Stay on the line with me."
"I locked everything," she said, her voice shaking. "But he—he's right there, Dylan—"
"Don't look out," he said sharply, sprinting to his truck. "Just stay low, stay quiet."
The phone crackled with her quick breaths. "I can hear something outside the kitchen—"
"Erica, listen to me. Go to the back room, the one without windows. I'm five minutes away."
There was a thud on her end of the call. A muffled gasp. Then silence.
"Erica!" he shouted.
Nothing.
The truck skidded into the gravel drive, tires spitting rainwater. Dylan was out before the engine stopped, phone clutched in one hand.
"Erica!" he shouted, running for the porch.
The front door was closed but not locked. That small detail made his pulse race harder. He pushed it open; the hinges groaned in the quiet.
Inside, the house looked untouched at first glance. The same faint scent of coffee. The blanket still draped over the couch. But there was a hum in the air, the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty—just waiting.
"Erica?" His voice came out softer now.
He moved through the living room. The curtains were still drawn. A thin line of daylight slipped beneath one, landing on the laptop sitting on the table. Its lid was half-open now.
Dylan's heart dropped.
He crossed to it slowly and pressed a key. The screen came to life. The email she'd mentioned was still open, but the picture was gone—just a blank gray square and a short message that hadn't been there before:
You shouldn't have called him.
A chill worked its way up Dylan's spine. He backed away and scanned the room again. Nothing was broken. No signs of a struggle. Just an empty quiet that didn't make sense.
Then he heard it—the faintest sound, like a floorboard creaking somewhere deeper in the house.
"Erica?" he said again, voice barely a whisper.
He followed the noise down the hallway. The door to the back room—the one without windows—was closed. He could see a thin strip of light underneath it.
He reached out, hand trembling, and turned the knob.
The door opened slowly.
Inside, Erica sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the phone still in her hand. Her eyes lifted toward him—wide, glassy—but when she saw his face, she let out a shaky breath that was half-sob, half-relief.
He dropped to his knees beside her. "Hey, hey… it's me. You're okay."
She nodded, but her voice came out barely audible. "He knocked on the window, Dylan. I heard it. I didn't know what to do."
He glanced around the small room—everything intact, but the curtain rod above the tiny side window was tilted, like someone had tugged on it from outside.
He swallowed hard, forcing calm into his tone. "You did the right thing. You stayed quiet."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. "I thought you wouldn't make it."
"I'm here," he said softly, holding her tight. "He's not getting near you again."
For a while they just sat there in the half-light, breathing together until the tremors in her hands eased.
Then Dylan stood and looked around once more. Something glinted on the floor near the door—a folded scrap of paper. He bent to pick it up.
It was damp, like it had been slipped under the frame. Four words scrawled in pencil:
You can't protect her.
to be continued....