Page 3 of Tides of Change
No one in New York knew I was here. No one. I’d texted my neighbor on Sunday and asked him to keep an eye on my apartment. I’d broken up with my boyfriend months ago, so I didn’t owe him an explanation. My editor lived in the city, but we usually worked via email. And my family thought I was on a writing retreat. I was here until the threat passed.
If therewasa threat, and I wasn’t simply being paranoid.
But I couldn’t deny I’d had strange things happen, things related to the series of thrillers I’d written. A black feather on my doorstep mimicked the calling card of the murderer in myfirst Jake Slate novel. Just a random feather, I’d tried to tell myself. Someone could have tracked it in on their shoe. But then, there was the copy of my second book on my usual coffee shop table, lying open at a scene in which the killer spied on the victim through binoculars. My spine had tingled at the reference. Next was the cryptic flyer left on my windshield from the clearly made-up Mr. Lee’s Trees. It echoed the victim of my third novel, a landscaper named Lee. I’d called the phone number on the paper, but it was disconnected. Was the flyer an innocent advertisement and the phone number an honest typo? I shuddered. It might not have been.
Separately, I could have dismissed each occurrence. But all together… A chill coursed down my body and left goosebumps in its wake. The references had given mean escalating sense of dread and hinted at a familiarity not just with my books but with my home and habits.
And then there had been the final straw—a sticky note on my apartment door that read,Guess who’s next.
I clutched my cup tightly, and it threatened to crush in my hand. I’d spent hours down a rabbit hole of rental listings, casting a wide net across the country—big cities, sleepy towns, anywhere far from the threat. Dozens of applications were sent into the void. The first reply? A Realtor in a tiny coastal town I’d never heard of—Seacliff Cove, California. One email later, I had a lease. Just like that, I was on a flight to San Francisco.
I moved through the house, my footsteps thudding on the hardwood floor. The quiet amplified every sound—the soft hum of the fridge, the cry of a distant seagull. I left the neutral-toned living room, the bare walls a contrast to the colorful, overfilled shelves of my apartment in Brooklyn.
I pushed open the door to the back bedroom I’d turned into my makeshift office, furnished sparsely with a standard desk, an adjustable lamp, and an ergonomic desk chair. My laptop andfile folders sat on the desk, a comforting reminder of home, even if it felt strange to have them here.
I placed my latte on the desk and dropped into the chair. I stared at the laptop, closed and silent, rubbed my eyes, and pushed down the dread. This was supposed to be my sanctuary, the place where I could pour my thoughts into words, into Jake’s world. Writing was my escape, my calling, and more than that, my career. I’d been one of the lucky ones. My books reached readers around the world. But today, layers of unease buried the joy I usually felt.
Was someone out there studying each word, analyzing my plots, and taking them to heart in ways I’d never imagined? Had I met them in passing at a book-signing, or maybe exchanged emails, only to have them fixate on my work? If I kept writing, would it feed their obsession and pull me deeper into their twisted reality? Would it ever end? If so, how?
My books featured stalking, kidnapping…and murder.
I shivered despite my sweatshirt and wrapped my arms around myself.
CHAPTER THREE
Garrett
Noah burst into the Tides & Tales bookstore, and his excitement radiated through the quiet shop like an electric spark. His sneakers pattered against the polished floor. He streaked past the display of recent bestsellers and made a beeline for the counter. Barely slowing, he announced, “Mr. Mason! Mr. Mason! I’m going to get a Halloween book!”
I trailed behind and soaked in the store’s scents—crisp paper, fresh ink, and lemon-polished wood.
Noah was the reader in our family. I liked a good story, but I preferred it on-screen, action-packed with explosions and heroes who saved the day in under two hours. A new thriller series was coming to a streaming channel—starring a crime-solver named Jake Slate—and I couldn’t wait to watch. Quiet movement on the second level caught my eye. My breath hitched, and I stuttered to a stop. A tall man searched the shelves on the balcony upstairs. Auburn hair curled around the edge of his ball cap.Ethan. I’d only seen him coming and going since our encounter at the coffee shop the previous weekend. I couldn’t help it—my gaze roamed from his curls, down his broad back, to his sculpted ass cupped by fitted jeans.
My thoughts screeched to a halt. What the hel—eck?
I hadn’t really noticed a man’s ass in years—not since high school, when I’d had an ill-advised crush on Leo, the center to my quarterback position. He’d had an easy swagger and a grin that made my stomach flip. But in the locker room, under the weight of machismo and expectations, attraction was dangerous. I’d kept my eyes forward, my mouth shut, and my hormones buried beneath pads and bravado.
But I’d also found myself drawn to the head cheerleader—the way her breasts bounced, the way her laugh lit me up. She was safe. Acceptable. I asked her to Homecoming, played the part, and from then on, I only dated women. I suppressed the other side of myself.
So, what was it about Ethan that cracked something open?
I mentally shook myself, forced my gaze away, and ambled to the counter. I tried to act unconcerned even though my heart raced with a weird, restless energy.
“Garrett.” Mason greeted me with a casual nod and a smile. He glanced at Noah, chuckled, and handed him a basket. “Go on back to the children’s nook, kiddo. I have some new books for you to look at.”
Noah flashed Mason a grin and took off, the basket swinging crazily at his side.
“We’re only buying two books!” I called after him.
Mason laughed, and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Good luck with that. I bet you leave with eight books.”
I shook my head. “Three.”
“Five.”
I rolled my eyes. But encouraging Noah’s love of books was worth the hit to my wallet.
As I followed Noah, I took a moment to drink in the sight of my kid. He sat on a colorful carpet, surrounded by picture books, and his small fingers carefully flipped through the pages.There was a warmth in my chest, a mix of pride and love that had stuck with me since the day he was born. My girlfriend had shocked me when she told me she was pregnant. We’d always used a condom. But Noah was proof that condoms failed, and he was the best surprise that ever happened to me. He was a little miracle disguised in messy hair and scraped knees.
