Page 38 of Midnight Lessons

If I can’t have you, no one can.

The phrase pops into my head. Matthew is guilty of the oldest pitfall in the book of controlling behavior: trying to assert dominance over my freedom and choices, framing his love as a form of ownership.

Owen lunges forward, his fury erupting. “Youpiece of shit!” he roars, grabbing Matthew by the collar and slamming him against the nearest tree.

Matthew’s laugh is breathless, but there’s no fear in his eyes. Just cold satisfaction. “And what are you going to do, Callahan? Beat me up? Go ahead. But it won’t change anything. I’ll still be in her head. I’ll still be inbothof your heads. That was the beauty of it, see? I didn’t even have to lay a hand on her.”

I leap forward, grabbing Owen’s arm desperately. “Owen, stop! Don’t—he’s not worth it. This is what he wants!” My voice is frantic, the fear of what might happen next choking me. If Owen hurts him, if he gives Matthew the satisfaction of reacting, he’ll only feed into Matthew's twisted games.

Owen steps back, chest heaving. “Get out of here,” he says through gritted teeth.

Matthew’s smug expression has every nerve in my body taut like a live wire. The pumpkins, the stars, the beautiful evening Owen planned—all of it fades to nothing. All I can see is him standing in the shadows like a vengeful ghost, throwing out threats as if he’s untouchable. I truly believe he thinks he is.

Owen’s body vibrates with barely controlled rage, muscles straining as if every fiber of his being is screaming to beat the smug smile off Matthew’s face. I can see it in his eyes—the fury, the promise of violence if Matthew steps even an inch closer. My pulse pounds in my ears, a steady rhythm of panic.

Headlights sweep over the field, bathing us in a harsh, blinding light. Tires crunching on gravel draw our attention, and a familiar black SUV pulls up beside Owen’s truck. The sheriff’s emblem catches the moonlight, and my heart soars with a desperate, shaky hope.

Sheriff Midnight steps out, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure in the glow of hisheadlights. He takes his time, unhurried, his gaze sweeping over the scene with the sharpness of a hawk. Behind him, two deputies exit the vehicle, their hands resting on the holsters at their belts. Relief floods through me, and I squeeze Owen’s arm, willing him to step back, to let the law take over.

“Evening, folks,” Sheriff Midnight drawls, his voice calm but laced with authority. His gaze lands on Matthew, who straightens up, smoothing down his rumpled jacket. “Matthew Crane. Funny running into you out here.”

Matthew’s smile is brittle. “Evening, Sheriff. I was just having a chat with some old friends. No need to make a scene.”

“I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?” the sheriff replies smoothly, glancing briefly at me and then back to Owen as if assessing the level of danger simmering between them. “We have some things to discuss.”

The way he says it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Owen takes a step back, his fists still clenchedat his sides.

“Discuss?” Matthew scoffs, but his eyes flick nervously to the deputies flanking the sheriff. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Sheriff.”

“Funny because I’ve been getting quite a few calls and complaints about your recent... behavior,” Sheriff Midnight counters, his tone sharp. “Stalking, harassment, and something about an online betting pool targeting Miss Winters here.”

Matthew’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing. “You have no proof of any of that.”

“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong,” a new voice cuts in.

I look up to see a man around our age with a disheveled mop of brown hair and glasses. He steps out from behind the sheriff’s SUV, holding a laptop under one arm.

“Mark!” I gasp, the shock of seeing Owen’s friend making my heart skip a beat. What is he doing here?

Matthew’s eyes widen as Mark walks over, the laptop balanced in his hands. “Who the hell are you?” he snarls, his voice unsteady.

“I’m the guy who traced every digital breadcrumb you left behind,” Mark replies with a small, satisfied smile. “It took me a while, but nobody is truly invisible online. You know that. Seems you’re the ringleader of a group of high school assholes who never outgrew the locker-room mentality.”

Matthew’s face contorts in a mix of confusion and panic. He opens his mouth to retort, but Mark cuts him off, holding up a hand, the laptop still firmly in his grasp.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking there’s no way I could trace it back to you,” Mark says casually, tilting the screen slightly as if presenting evidence to a jury. “And yeah, you were smart to use an anonymous site, masked usernames, burner accounts—the whole nine yards. But you know what they say about leaving a digital trail? Even the smallest slip-ups can lead to big consequences.”

Matthew’s eyes dart back and forth, calculating, searching for a way out. “You’re bluffing,” he spits out, but his voice wavers, fear seeping through the cracks of his composure.

“I don’t bluff.” Mark shrugs nonchalantly, tapping the side of his laptop. “See, most people don’t realize how much data they’re giving away, even when they’re ‘careful.’ But when you used your regular internet connection—just once, yesterday—to log in and check the pool, you left a digital fingerprint. From that single instance, I was able to track your IP address and confirm your identity.”

Matthew pales, his jaw tightening. “That’s impossible. I was careful. I?—”

“Not careful enough,” Mark interrupts smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “And you want to know the best part? When you set up that betting pool, you tied it to an anonymous payment account. The thing about ‘anonymous’ is that it’s only as good as your security measures. When you withdrew funds to taunt the people who lost the bet, you didn’t realize the encryption wasn’t as foolproof as you thought. With the right skills and a little patience, I decrypted the transaction history.”

Matthew swallows hard, his eyes widening as Mark continues.

“Everything pointed back to you. From your IP address to the dummy accounts you created to the times and dates you accessed it, right down to that clever little personal note you sent your buddies. You know the one—‘Don’t get any ideas, boys. She’s mine to deal with.’” Mark’s smile turns cold, a predator who’s cornered his prey. “Yeah, not so anonymous after all, is it, Matthew? Or should I call you KnightRider86?”

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