Page 109 of Believe it or Knot

“Too many death threats recently. No one is actually going to attack you,” I keep trying to reassure myself that everything is fine. “No one even knows you’re here. Ethan kept your address out of it.”

I’m not in the habit of talking to myself, but in light of recent events, apparently I need to in order to feel safe. The lock comes free and I pull my bike up right before throwing my leg over it.

I glance around one more time, that feeling of being watched shivering over my skin. But again, there is nothing. Maybe I should drive instead of ride. It would make me feel safer.

I almost immediately dismiss the thought. Business as usual means riding my bike to work. It means taking the trails I know like the back of my hand. It means not letting the mess with the Cordova pack control my entire life.

I’ve cut ties with them. I’ve sent back all their gifts. Over the last few days, I’ve carefully, so fucking carefully, bundled up my emotions and hurt and anger and frustration, and tucked it all away. Now I need to claim back my life. Keep my chin raised and show the world that this will not break me. Hell, it won’t even dent me.

Lies.

But maybe if I tell myself it enough, it’ll be true. Manifestation at its finest.

As within, so without.

That’s a thing, right?

With that thought in mind, I lift my chin and push my bike forward, placing my feet on the pedals with familiarity, and start toward my restaurant.

It feels really good. The lingering unease I’d felt at my cabin fades away entirely in the wake of exertion, and the beautiful scenery that feels like homecoming. Because it is. Lake Kilrose is my home. It will always be my home.

It was foolish to even consider moving to the city, leaving all this behind for a few pretty faces. As Elizabeth Bennet once said, what are men to rocks and mountains?

I would have never fit into their world.

I knew it going into the relationship. I would have never been comfortable in Granton. Would never have felt at home or at peace.

This is where I belong.

Nevermind that the feeling of homecoming is tinged with a deep sadness and dissatisfaction. This is my life. It will always be my life.

Another wave of unease sweeps over me, that feeling of being watched, this time accompanied by the faint sound of a motor rumbling. I risk a glance over my shoulder but see no one.

I’m alone.

I strain my ears over the thundering of my heart and my ragged breathing for the engine. Is it getting closer? Or moving farther away?

I squash the impulse to stop pedaling, to slow down in order to hear better. If someone is following me and they’re on some kind of motorized vehicle, the last thing I want to do is stop.

Instead, I push harder, making my legs move faster. I know the trail and I know how fast I can go on it safely. I’ve never exactly sped down it, but I’m confident in my ability to remain seated over the rough terrain.

The engine cuts off or fades in the distance until I can no longer hear it, and I let out a breath, but I don’t slow down.

That feeling of being watched, being followed intensifies, making me pedal harder, faster, bumping over the uneven trail, making my breath come in pants. I want to call someone, to let them know I’m being followed, but I also know I can’t let go of the handlebars, not at this speed on these trails. If I reach for my phone, I will crash, and then whoever is behind me will get me.

What they’ll do with me once they have me, I have no fucking clue. But I’m not in any hurry to find out.

With that thought, I push harder, go faster. Sweat beads on my brow and my heart is thundering. I’m minutes away from the Shack, minutes away from people and safety. Hope and elation swell and I let myself have a moment of victory. I’m going to make. I’m going to-

Too late.

Two things happen at once. The first is a freaking log is tossed into the middle of the trail, too close to my front tire for me to avoid. My brakes screech as I try to keep from hitting it, but it doesn’t matter anyway because at the same time, a body lunges out from behind a tree.

Pain explodes in my chest, right across my sternum as some part of him collides with me, knocking me back off my bike and onto the dirt of the trail. My back hits a root. The air is knocked out of me and I can do nothing but writhe in pain and gasp for breath as footsteps thunder toward me. A moment later, a figure in all black, except for his face, covered by a white sheep mask, kneels next to me, head tilted as he observes me like a bug on a pin.

The sound of someone running reaches my ears and the man tenses for a moment, looking up before he relaxes. A second pair of black boots comes into view, a second mask, this one a pig.

“You drug her yet?”

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