Page 55 of Tides of Change
“Let’s get you dressed and warmed up,” I said softly, reluctant to let the moment end. My fingers lingered on his skinfor a beat longer than necessary before I forced myself to pull away and hand him his clothes.
He took them without a word, his expression unreadable in the dim light. We dressed in tandem, the previous intimacy replaced with companionship. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head, the fabric almost like armor after the vulnerability we’d just shared.
“Want to stay for dinner?” The words slipped out before I could second-guess them, my voice tinged with hope that he’d say yes, and we could extend this fragile thread of connection a little longer.
He sighed, and the corners of his mouth tugged downward. “Rain check? I’d better get back to work.”
Disappointment hit me like a sudden wave, sharp and cold. I nodded and tried to mask the sting. “I get it.” I forced a small smile. His job wasn’t a neat nine-to-five, no matter how much I might wish our schedules meshed. “I’ll walk you home.”
He opened his mouth, the beginnings of an argument forming in his eyes, but I shook my head and cut him off before he could start. “No argument.” Sarge couldn’t prevent me from protecting a neighbor.
A twitch of his lips broke through his frown, and he nodded in surrender. “Okay.”
He slipped into his jacket and tied his sneakers with quick movements. I grabbed my keys, gestured toward the door, and held it open as we stepped into the brisk late afternoon air.
Our footsteps fell into rhythm as we walked the short distance to his house. Neither of us spoke, but the silence felt amicable, the kind that didn’t need filling.
That comfort shattered the moment we reached his porch.
I saw it first—a paper flapping in the breeze, just a corner of it caught beneath the edge of the doormat.
I froze. “Hold up.”
Ethan followed my gaze, the last trace of relaxation draining from his face. We both crouched.
It was a single sheet of printer paper, the kind you'd barely glance at if it weren’t for the bold black letters across the top:
Author Ethan Quinn Dead At 38
My pulse thudded in my ears. The rest of the page was filled with the details of a fake obituary—hisuntimely passing, theloss to the literary world, and a funeral date for the following week. It was sick. Calculated. Meant to terrify him.
And judging by the way Ethan’s breath hitched, it worked.
“Inside,” I ordered. “Now.”
“Garrett—”
“I’ll handle this,” I said firmly. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
He nodded, eyes wide but trusting, and stepped inside without another word.
I’d take it to Ballard, do everything by the book. But the bitter truth lodged itself deep in my chest as I straightened up.
Ballard wasn’t going to do a damn thing.
So, I would continue to protect Ethan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ethan
Just after lunchtime the next day, my phone chimed with a text.
Garrett
Beautiful day. Want to take a break, get out of town, and visit a lighthouse?
I glanced at the word count on my manuscript. Progress had been solid this morning, a flow I’d been missing lately due to the worry hanging over my head. The thought of spending the afternoon with Garrett, away from my keyboard, away from the stalker, made me smile. I flexed my shoulders, trying to work out the knot from sitting too long, and typed back.
