The morning started like any other—at least, I tried to make it feel that way.
Coffee brewing, steam curling into the air, my apartment quiet and calm. I sat at the small kitchen table, stirring the lavender latte I had poured for myself, but my thoughts weren't on the soft foam or the delicate scent of vanilla. They were on the Queen of Hearts, folded neatly into the corner of my tote.
I had tried to convince myself it was just a coincidence. Someone playing a prank. Boise was full of curious people, maybe even someone who had seen my old shows online. But deep down, I knew better. There was a patience, a precision in that card that only one person could have.
He had found me.
Every sound in my apartment seemed amplified: the hum of the fridge, the distant honk of a delivery truck, the rustle of the curtains in the breeze. I could hear my own heartbeat in the silence. I felt the weight of the past pressing down, the invisible eyes of Ava's life stalking me even here, two years later.
I tried to focus on the ordinary: planning my day, thinking about errands, maybe stopping by the bookstore. Anything to make the world feel normal. But normal wasn't coming.
The phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I didn't need to check it to know. I already knew who it was.
"Don't get comfortable, Ava. You can't hide."
A shiver ran down my spine.
I paced the apartment, trying to think clearly. He wasn't just reminding me of the past; he was warning me, taunting me, testing the limits of my calm. He knew the life I had built here, the life I had thought was mine. And he wanted it back.
I opened the notebook I carried everywhere, the one that had been my anchor for the past two years. Bullet points, random thoughts, daily routines, lists of safe places—anything to remind me that I could control something in this world. I wrote his name at the top of a page: He knows. He's here.
I wasn't naïve. I knew he had networks, people who could track me if he wanted. He had proven it before, after all. He had made threats that forced me into acts I'd never imagined committing. And now…he had found a way to penetrate the calm I had built.
I decided I couldn't stay in one place. Not today, not while I felt the weight of him on the edges of my life. I grabbed my coat, my tote, and my keys. I needed to move, to see, to understand if this was just a message—or a prelude to something worse.
The streets of Boise were familiar, almost too familiar. Every coffee shop, every boutique, every corner was a piece of my new life, and now it felt like a stage set for someone watching. I tried to act casually, blending into the flow of pedestrians, laughing at the joke a street performer made as he juggled oranges. But I was aware of every shadow, every reflection, every movement behind me.
Nothing.
Yet the card, the voice, the text—they told me he was here. Watching. Waiting.
I ducked into a bookstore, one of the few places that made me feel safe. Books lined every wall, the scent of paper and ink grounding me. Daniel, the owner, greeted me with his usual grin.
"Morning, Clara!" he said, eyes bright.
I forced a smile. "Morning. New arrivals today?"
He nodded. "A few mysteries and thrillers. You'll like them."
I wandered the aisles, running my fingers over the spines, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being observed. The card felt like a weight in my pocket, a reminder that my past was bleeding into my present.
I left the store without buying anything, moving down the street with purpose. Every corner I turned, every window I passed, I scanned for anomalies. Someone following me. Someone placing another card. Something.
And then I saw it: a man on the opposite side of the street, just standing. Watching. His posture relaxed, but his gaze fixed. I couldn't be sure if it was him—maybe I was imagining it—but I felt the chill of recognition run through me.
I ducked into a café, hoping to lose him in the crowd. Ordered tea. Sat near the window. My fingers tapped nervously against the cup. The street outside looked ordinary. But I couldn't relax.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
"You're running out of time, Ava. Remember what you owe me."
I pressed my palm against the table, trying to steady my breath. My life—my carefully built sanctuary—was being stripped away piece by piece. And yet, I refused to panic. I refused to be baited.
I thought about the Houdini act, about the water tank, about how I had escaped before. He wanted control. He wanted fear. But I had learned patience, observation, misdirection. I could plan. I could disappear. I could turn the game on him.
I scribbled notes in my notebook: safe houses, possible allies, ways to mislead him. I reminded myself that no one here knew who I was. That gave me leverage. That gave me time.
I walked home slowly, making sure to vary my route. The city was quiet now, streets emptying as evening approached. I unlocked my door and stepped inside, closing it carefully behind me.
I was alone. For now.
But Ava was no longer just a name from the past. She was my identity, my skill, my strength. And if he thought he could reach me again, he was about to learn how wrong he was.
I sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, the notebook open. Lists, plans, contingencies. Every step I would take if he came for me, every move to stay ahead. I could feel the tension in my shoulders, the cold prickle at the back of my neck, but I also felt the spark that had always driven me—the spark that had pulled me out of the water, out of fear, into freedom.
He had found me.
But I was ready.