Page 80 of Creeping Lily
Bethany’s eyes narrow like she’s trying to peel the layers off me and find the truth underneath. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I tack on a light tone, force a breezy smile that feels paper-thin. Inside, the storm still rages.
Justin drives me to the bus terminal without another word,his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I keep my gaze locked out the passenger-side window, watching the campus shrink in the rearview until it’s nothing but a blur. I don’t let myself look back. Distance feels like oxygen, like maybe I can breathe again once there’s enough of it between me and everything I’m running from.
But his voice follows me. My stalker’s warning, low and measured—Forget the Walker family.The weight of it presses against my ribs, a reminder that danger doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers. My skin prickles at the phantom brush of his hand, the ghost of his presence still curling around me.
I haven’t seen him since the night he pulled me out of the dark. That night still lives behind my eyelids in jagged fragments: the scent of damp earth, the taste of fear, the sharp rush of survival. Two men. Two masks. Two predators.
The first—black ski mask, hot breath spilling threats I’ll never forget. Words like blades, cutting into the thin shell of composure I was clinging to.
The second—hood up, silicone mask molding him into something almost human but not quite. His movements had been clean, practiced, surgical. His danger wasn’t pointed at me, but it was there, coiled in every step, every flick of his wrist.
He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to.
I should have been relieved. But the worst part of that night wasn’t the attack—it was the silence afterward. Sitting across from Bethany, my mouth locked shut while her gaze searched for answers I couldn’t give. I couldn’t tell her I’d been saved by someone who rescued me in ways I couldn’t put into words. Someone who felt like both a threat and a lifeline.
Now, with the bus engine rumbling under my feet and miles of road ahead, I’m chasing something I shouldn’t. My so-called “fact-finding mission.”
I don’t know who my stalker is. I don’t know what he wants. But I know this—he told me to stay away.
And every mile I travel is me telling him I won’t.
The hinges groanas the door opens, revealing a woman whose warmth hits me before her words do. She’s got a smile that crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the kind of smile that belongs in a kitchen full of fresh bread and soft music.
“I’m Mrs. Ballyworth,” she says, introducing herself with a small nod. “My husband and I live here now—with our son, Billy.”
Billy appears at her hip, a toddler with curls that bounce around his face like they’re made of sunlight. He studies me for a single heartbeat before leaning forward with both arms out, as if we’ve known each other forever. His mother blinks in surprise.
“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” she says, voice colored with disbelief.
Billy giggles when I take him, his small hands curling into my sweater like he’s decided I’m safe. For a moment, I let myself smile back.
As we talk, Mrs. Ballyworth tells me they bought the old Walker house a year ago. Before that, it sat empty for nine months—its windows dark, its halls stripped of the voices that once lived here. She’s worked hard to make it hers, filling the rooms with light and warmth. I can see it in the details—potted plants in the window, a fresh coat of paint on the porch railing. But the pool out back… that’s gone.
“We had to fill it in,” she says softly, her gaze flickering toward Billy. “Almost lost him to it.”
Her voice trembles, and I don’t ask for more.
When I bring up the Walkers, her expression shifts—softsympathy, but no real answers. She says the Senator and Mrs. Walker separated and drifted their separate ways. She doesn’t know what happened to the boys.
Disappointment sticks in my throat, but I thank her anyway, lowering Billy gently back into her arms before stepping off the porch. The door closes behind me, and a strange heaviness settles over my shoulders, like I’ve taken a step deeper into the past without finding what I came for.
There’s somewhere else I need to be.
I’d boarded the bus from Colt University with a simple plan—to surprise Grandma Jo and my mom for spring break. But somewhere along the way, something tugged me off course. Now I’m here, in the middle of streets that used to know my name, standing outside a house that holds both the best and worst of my memories.
I walk away, forcing myself not to look back, and my feet take me where my mind hasn’t dared in years. The ice cream parlor.
It’s still here, though the sign above the door is faded and the windows are clouded over, as if time itself has pressed its fingerprints into the glass. Inside, a freckled boy with hair the color of a stop sign stands behind the counter. His grin is too wide for the dim little shop, and I can’t hold his gaze for long.
“One chocolate waffle cone,” I say, because some things don’t change.
Outside, the afternoon air is heavy and warm. The ice cream melts quickly, dripping down my fingers as I wander into the cracked parking lot next door. At the far edge, a lone bench leans against a towering brick wall, forgotten but still holding its ground.
I sink onto it, my shadow stretching long beside me.
This is where it happened. Where Bentley and Lincoln spent whole afternoons teaching me to ride a bike, their laughterringing off the brick like music. Where scraped knees were badges of honor, and summer days never seemed to end.
