Page 47 of Max Bannon

I followed her gaze and froze.

There was an envelope on the little table. A plain white envelope I hadn’t seen when I walked outside earlier.

No address. No stamp. Just my name on the front.

Handwritten.

In thick black marker.

“Was that here earlier?” she asked.

“No,” I said slowly, crossing the porch. “You know how far off the road I live. No one should’ve been able to get inside, my screen door is always locked.”

“Then how’d they get on your porch with that screen door locked?”

I didn’t answer. My gut was already twisting.

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a single photo.

Willa.

At the market.

From behind a nearby stall. She was laughing, tossing her braid over her shoulder, holding a bar of soap like she was telling some ridiculous story.

“Max said this town was quiet,” I muttered.

Willa took a step back, her hand gripping the counter's edge. “Why would someone take that?”

“I don’t know yet.” I grabbed my phone. “But I’m calling Frasier. And I’m locking this place down.”

“You think someone’s watching me?”

I looked at her—really looked. Her face had gone pale, her freckles standing out more starkly.

“I think,” I said carefully, “you’ve got someone in your life who doesn’t want you to be happy.” We walked inside.

She blinked at me.

And then, very quietly, said, “I think I know who it might be.”

She stood frozenin my kitchen, the sunlight catching the edges of her hair—long, wild, honey-blonde waves tumbling down her back like a damn shampoo commercial that had no business being this distracting in the middle of a crisis.

Her gray eyes—stormy and impossible to read—locked on the photo in my hand.

“I know who took that,” she said quietly.

I set the picture down carefully. “Tell me.”

Willa swallowed hard. “His name’s Derek. He’s my ex-boyfriend. We dated for a few months before I moved here. He didn’t take the breakup well.”

I leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “Definenot well.”

“He followed me around for a while. Left weird notes on my windshield. He showed up at the farmers' market a few times after I asked him not to. Always made it seem like it was a coincidence.” She looked down. “He’d never been violent… justwatchful. Creepy.”

“Did you report any of it?”

---