“Yeah, it can be a wild ride,” I agree, feeling a sense of camaraderie forming.
She gestures to a photo on the wall, featuring a younger version of herself with camera crews and protest signs. “I used to be an investigative journalist—five cities, two wars, and one government scandal that got me reassigned to obituaries.”
“Wow, that sounds fascinating,” I say, intrigued.
“Well, the adrenaline is addictive.” She sets the wilderness book aside. “But it’s important to remember how to navigate life after the spark fades. Stories matter, but you have to live with what happens after.”
“Yeah, I’m learning that.”
As I pour myself a cup from the dented carafe in the back corner, I can’t help but read the faded quote on the mug:The truth will set you free. But first it will piss you off.
Perfect irony for a journalist.
I leave the bookstore feeling strangely lighter yet more aware of the complexity that lies beneath the surface.
But I'm halfway to the truck when I see him.
Across the street?—
A man.
Standing too still. Not moving like a local. Face hidden beneath a beanie and mirrored lenses, but there's something about his posture that makes my blood run cold.
I know that stance.
Predator.
My breath seizes in my chest.
I turn—fast, steady—and walk the opposite way. Don't run.Never run.Running makes you prey. Makes you a target. I learned that lesson the hard way.
I duck into the narrow space between two buildings, counting my heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
When I glance back at the spot where he stood?—
He's gone.
Like he was never there.
I wait another thirty seconds, then step back onto the sidewalk. My eyes scan every shadow, every corner, but there's no sign of him.
The street continues its lazy winter rhythm. A woman walks her dog. A teenager shovels snow from a storefront entrance. Nothing out of place.
Except me.
I make it back to the truck without incident, keys already in hand, ready to drive, to move, to run again if I have to. I've done it before. I can do it again.
But as I reach for the door handle, I see it.
There's a folded note tucked under my windshield wiper.
I freeze, heart hammering in my ribs.
It could be nothing. A flyer for a local event. A parking ticket. A note from a friendly neighbor who recognized Logan's truck.
But I know better.
I pull it free, fingers numb with cold and fear. The paper is crisp, expensive. The kind that comes from a high-end stationery store, not a quick print shop.
