Page 41 of Tides of Change
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and my feet hit the soft carpet. My mind wandered back to the moment when we had stepped into unfamiliar territory.
Ethan seemed interested in taking things further, but he was a patient, empathetic person. He was treading carefully. Heknew I was still figuring out what this meant for me—what we meant. But I wouldn’t pretend there wasn’t something between us anymore.
For the first time in a long while—maybe ever—I felt like I was exactly who I was supposed to be.
The bathroom mirror reflected a version of me that seemed different this morning—a man who had crossed an invisible line the night before. I splashed water on my face, letting the coolness shock me back to reality before heading down the hall. As I passed Noah’s room, I paused, and my eyes lingered on his neatly made bed, the Spider-Man quilt tucked perfectly at the edges. The emptiness of the room felt too loud.
A pang hit me square in the chest—I missed my little buddy. I could almost hear his laughter echoing through the house, his feet thumping down the hall as he raced to tell me some new fact he’d learned. But he wasn’t here. He was with my parents. He was crabbing with my dad and probably loving every second. The thought brought a small smile to my face, but it didn’t erase the ache.
He was safer there.
The thought sobered me instantly. Worry crept in and twisted my insides like a vise. I shuddered, the horrifying possibility of Noah ever being in the stalker’s crosshairs too much to bear. The mere idea sent a chill down my spine, and I forced myself to push it away before it consumed me.
The mundane tasks of the day waited for me. I went through the motions, catching up on laundry and scrubbing the bathrooms while a true crime podcast played in my ears. The narrator’s voice droned on about motives, timelines, and evidence, but I barely registered the details. Instead, my mind wandered, weaving between thoughts of Ethan, Noah, and the lingering fear that our peaceful life was teetering on the edge of something darker.
I folded a towel and realized how much I craved normalcy. The simple act of tidying up brought back a sense of control. But even as I wiped down the kitchen countertops, the weight of everything I couldn’t control loomed large and pressed down like a storm cloud on the horizon.
But I would find that stalker and put the motherfudger behind bars. Ethan would live freely again.
And leave Seacliff Cove. Go back to his family. And I understood that—family was important.
Noah and I would remain behind. The thought settled heavily in my chest, like a weight pressing down on my ribs. Ethan’s quiet laughter, his calm presence, his steadfast resilience—all of it would be gone from my life. A sigh escaped me, so deep it felt like it originated from the soles of my feet, carrying with it the ache of an inevitable goodbye.
As I slid the final fork into the dishwasher after lunch, my phone chimed with a text message. The familiar note, once tame, now sent a jolt of tension through me.
Ethan:Received a threatening letter.
Everything in me went still. A low, familiar chill crept up my spine as I grabbed the phone.
Garrett:I’m coming over. Don’t touch anything.
I scooped up my keys from the counter and grabbed the small kit I kept by the door—gloves, evidence bags, a notepad. I hadn’t needed them this often until Ethan arrived in Seacliff Cove.
I hustled across the street with a pair of nitrile gloves and an evidence bag in my pocket. My heart beat faster with every step. A mixture of professional urgency and personal need drove me forward. When I knocked on Ethan’s door, it opened almost immediately.
The moment our eyes met, the formalities slipped away. I couldn’t help myself. I pulled him into my arms, needing to feelhim, to reassure both of us we were still here, still standing together against the dark shadows closing in.
Ethan trembled against me, his breath warm against my neck. His vulnerability, so rarely shown, hit me square in the chest. Watching Ethan go through this? That was the hardest part. Seeing the fear etched into his features, the way his voice shook slightly—this wasn’t something I could easily fix.
“We’re going to get through this,” I said quietly. “Together.”
He nodded against me. “I’m just so tired of wondering what’s next.”
I pulled back gently, my hands still resting on his arms. “Let me see it.”
He turned and led me to the kitchen table, where a large manila envelope sat next to a stack of stapled papers.
“I—I wasn’t thinking when I opened it, just figured it was junk mail.” He raked a hand through his hair, frustration clear in every tense line of his body. “I didn’t notice at first that the envelope didn’t have a return address.” He let out a shaky breath, his voice thick with self-recrimination. “So stupid. I know better than that.”
I wasn’t about to reprimand him. He was already punishing himself. But the thought of what could have been inside—something deadly—made a shudder run through me.
Pulling on my gloves, I approached the table. The envelope had Ethan’s name—Ethan Cole—and local address spelled out in bold, black, all-caps lettering. The handwriting was jagged and angry, the pen pressed so hard it had scratched through the paper in places, leaving tiny tears. No return address. Generic postage stamps. A Seacliff Cove postmark dated two days ago.
Virtually untraceable.
A stack of stapled papers sat next to the envelope. I tugged on a pair of gloves and picked up the printout. I carefully opened the top sheet. The formatting caught my attention first—narrative structure, like a scene from a book. Then I read the words.
My stomach dropped.
