Page 47 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
The sticky notes are still on the fridge—Ask, don’t assume. Let him help.They look like mission patches for a life I’m trying to build without a manual. I’m pouring coffee when the phone buzzes with Duke’s double-tap vibration. Work tone, not friend tone.
DUKE: Heads up. We’ve got a third face. Not Mercer. Picked him up on store cams two blocks off your place last night.
On Melanie or on us?
DUKE: Pattern says around you. Gait reads trained, not creep. Unknown intent.
Before I can reply, a banner alert crawls across the top of the screen—winter storm upgraded to a blizzard warning. Whiteout conditions, travel “not advised,” possible outages. The sky outside already has that leaden press that dampens street noise and speeds up your heartbeat.
Mel shuffles out in my sweatshirt, hair a comet, hand on her belly like she’s tucking the baby’s blankets. She clocks my face in under a second.
“Work?” she asks.
“Work,” I confirm, then soften it. “And weather.”
We’ve got an appointment midmorning. I park under the same camera, reverse our usual approach, take stairs instead of the elevator because metal boxes are only charming when they move. At the OB’s office, Dr. Patel is the human version of a warm blanket: vitals steady, baby strong, two centimeters and softening. “No action item,” she says with a smile. “Just hydration and common sense.” She glances at the window. “And don’t drive if we do get a blizzard.”
Copy.
Melanie smiles. “I remember the last blizzard Saint Pierce had.”
We look at her.
“It was the night I was born.”
Our fate is sealed. This baby will be born during a blizzard because that’s how that works. I’m already making a plan.
On the way back, I run our countersurveillance playbook because my neck prickles before my eyes can name why. Traffic’s thin, and the sky’s lower. Two turns in, a silver Subaru with a ski rack shows up in the mirror and stays there through three choices no one makes by accident.
“Gingerbread?” I ask.
“Cinnamon roll,” Melanie says, steady. She threads her fingers through mine on the console like it’s a tether.
I alter speed profile—up five, down seven—take a right without signaling where it’s legal, ride a bus’s blind spot for mirror coverage, then peel off under a glass awning so I can use reflections without giving him my brake lights. He doesn’t crowd, doesn’t perform incompetence. He lands at that textbook standoff: close enough to keep me, far enough to deny intent.
Not Mercer. Different posture. Less laziness in the spine. More economy in the hands.
I thumb comms. “Silver Subaru tail, ski rack, two blocks south of Birch. Operator reads trained. Not our gray sedan.”
Gunner’s voice crackles, already awake. “On cams. Plate’s clean-clean—rental aggregator again. He’s wearing the jacket you buy when you want to look like every other guy at REI.”
“Duke?” I ask.
“Don’t burn it,” he says. “Let’s learn. Take Magnolia, then cut through the mural alley. I’ll scoop his face on the east cam.”
We do. Subaru slides past like he’s just coincidentally also into murals. I log tiny details. He’s not filming us; he’s scanning. The eyes move like a man looking for someone else.
Back at the apartment, I park two levels down and nose-out, because front bumpers belong to people who think cars start every time. The garage air tastes like cold iron. In the dust near our spot, there’s a faint shoe print that isn’t mine—Vibram chevron, small pebble embedded near the toe, recent enough to hold edges. Someone stood here and watched the stairwell. It’s not a panic button, but it’s a data point. I take the point and add it to the map.
Upstairs, wedge, chain, blinds. I set the radio on the dresser face up and pull the go-bag to the foot of the bed. The storm warning pings again, louder. I pivot from tail math to blizzard prep without changing gears. Sandbags, but for weather.
“Checklist?” Melanie asks, because she knows me now.
“Checklist,” I say. “Charge everything. Water jugs topped. Towels, spare blankets staged. Car fueled, scraper by the door, boots and gloves ready. If power hiccups, we keep one room warm, we don’t open the fridge unless it’s a prize-winning moment, and we use your cinnamon-roll code to tell me if you’re okay without broadcasting ‘panic.’”
She half-smiles, half-worries. “I love how romantic you make a disaster sound.”
I was going to make a joke. I don’t. “I want you comfortable,” I say.
