Page 22 of Tides of Change
“I write thrillers,” he said finally, “because I’ve always liked puzzles. Even as a kid, I wanted to know how things fit together.”
He sat back, his body loose but his voice careful. “Thrillers let me explore that. You start with a mess—something bloody or brutal or broken—and you peel it apart, layer by layer. You get to make sense of chaos, even if just for a few hundred pages.”
I watched him for a beat. He wasn’t putting on a show. This wasn’t a press interview answer. It was quieter than that. More real.
“Was there something that made you want to start?” I asked.
He hesitated. “I guess… I wanted to know why people make the choices they do. Especially the bad ones. Writing let me ask the question without having to live the answers.”
I nodded slowly. “Makes sense. You’re the one shining the flashlight into the dark corners.”
Ethan’s smile was small but real. “I like that.”
We finished eating and cleaned up together in a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. Then, with beers in hand, we settled onto the couch in the living room. The soft cushions dipped under our combined weight as we sat side-by-side, and our thighs brushed. I shifted away, but not by much. I suspected he would need support and comfort during the coming conversation.
I set my bottle on the coffee table with a clink and pulled out my phone. I clicked on a notes app and poised my thumbs over the keyboard. “Tell me everything,” I ordered.
Ethan’s brow furrowed as his gaze flicked to the phone in my hands. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes,” I said, unyielding. “If I can’t convince you to file a report, then at least I’ll have the details for myself.” What I didn’t tell him was that I’d unofficially put the word out to watch for anything suspicious. But darn it, I didn’t want this to stay unofficial. This needed a proper investigation. “Start from the beginning. Dates, times, events. Everything.”
Ethan exhaled, his breath shaky. “I think it all began Tuesday, four weeks ago,” he said, low. “I found a black feather at the door to my apartment around two in the afternoon.”
A chill ran down my spine, and I straightened, my thumbs hovering over the screen. “Like the feather the assassin used as a calling card in your first Jake Slate novel?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and his hands curled into tight fists on his thighs, knuckles white. “Yes. But I thought I was being paranoid. Someone could’ve carried it in on their shoe.”
“But…” I prompted.
He brought me up to speed on the other creepy gifts.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and my scalp tingled. Taken separately, each incident could be dismissed as a coincidence, but together, they painted a darker picture.
I asked gently, “What made you leave the city?”
Ethan didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was debating whether or not to say the words aloud. Then he exhaled—quiet, resigned—and met my gaze.
“I found a sticky note on my door that read,Guess who’s next.”
The words hit me like a punch to the sternum. I reared back, every protective instinct firing at once. “Fudge, Ethan,” I said, my voice low. “That’s not just creepy. That’s a threat.”
He gave a shrug and slid his gaze away from mine. “It was the final straw.”
“So, you packed up and left.”
Ethan nodded. “Yes. In less than twenty-four hours.” His voice was a whisper, heavy with exhaustion and fear.
“Who knows you’re here?”
“No one. Not even my family.”
I exhaled sharply and anger bubbled beneath my surface. “Was the plastic knife next?”
He hesitated. “Well, maybe. Did anyone else report pranks like that?”
I hated to be the one to crush any hope he might’ve had. “No. We caught the kids who’d been pulling those stunts. They swore they didn’t do it.”
His shoulders sagged, and he grabbed his beer, gulping it like a man desperate for courage. “A knife is the murder weapon in my fifth book.”
