Page 49 of Let Me In

Yeah. It feels like a goddamn miracle.

I don’t move.

I don’t even breathe too hard.

Because this this peace is sacred. And rare.

And then I see it.

Just through the narrow break in the curtains, out past the trees.

A flicker of movement. The glint of headlights cutting too sharp through the dusk.

Then the crunch.

Gravel.

The sound of something watching, not passing through.

Every part of me sharpens.

I ease her gently to the couch, one arm still curled protectively around her even as I shift. She stirs but doesn’t wake.

“Shh,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “I’ve got you.”

She makes the faintest sound, something small and content, and leans ever so slightly into my touch—like even in sleep, she hears me. Like she knows.

Then I rise.

Silent. Precise.

I cross to the window, scan the treeline.

And there it is.

A black sedan. Parked just down the ridge, tucked like it thinks I won’t see it. No plates. No reason to be here.

My jaw tightens, pressure coiling low in my chest. The kind that doesn't show yet—but promises it will.

I slip outside, boots barely making a sound on the porch, eyes fixed and calculating.

The car is gone by the time I make it down the steps, but it was there. I know it was.

The past, maybe.

Names and faces that I vowed to never see again.

I wait. Count to thirty. Then return inside.

The second I step back through the door, she’s awake.

Blinking. Rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Voice sleepy and a little guilty.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just… I didn’t sleep great last night. And this—being here…”

She trails off. Then looks up at me.

“Was it that car again?”

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