The wind whines around us while we walk side by side, our strides coordinated. My skinny frame next to his muscular one. There’s a sense of safety as I walk with this man. With another bite of the wind, I catch a whiff of his cologne—masculine, subtle, and expensive.

We stop at my car, the parking lot light shining over us.

I tug my keys from my purse. “What’s your last name?”

He pauses and averts his gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

A flicker of anguish flashes across his face, and he forces a smile. “You plan to cyberstalk me when you get home?”

“Damn straight.”

He shakes his head. “Nope, not letting you in on my secrets yet.”

“Yet?” I raise a brow. “Does that mean there will be a time when you do?”

“Get in your car, trouble.”

He chuckles and tips his chin toward my shiny red BMW coupe—another item my parents let me keep after the snip-snip of my financials. I unlock my car, and he opens the door, stepping to the side to allow me room to slide in. I start my car, rubbing my freezing hands together, and curse myself for not remote-starting it earlier.

“Good night, trouble.” He peeks through the door. “Drive safe.”

“Good night, Lincoln.”

He offers me one last smile, gently shuts the door, and waits until I leave the parking lot before returning to the bar. I replay our conversations in my head on the ten-minute drive to my duplex. After parking, I grab my bag and scramble into my apartment.

Noise flows through my neighbor’s walls. The closest we’ve been to a conversation is when he screams at his video games at three in the morning and I bang on the wall.

I check my phone for Georgia updates and then shower, savoring the steaming water pelting at my sore muscles. Tipping my head back, I groan as my real-life problems evade my thoughts. Work was a temporary reprieve from them.

A reprieve from Quinton.

Stepping out of the shower, I dry off. My skin crawls when my phone beeps with a text.

Quinton: Quit ignoring me. We need to talk.

I stopped blocking his number when he found other ways to contact me. He’d randomly show up where I was or call me from different numbers, and once, he even had some rando kid deliver a letter like we were in the Cold War and I was his wife, waiting at home for him. Answering his calls is easier than dealing with his weird alternatives.

I stab my fingers against the screen like I want to stab him.

Me: We’ve talked plenty.

Quinton: I don’t trust you.

Me: I don’t trust you. We’re even.

Quinton: Don’t make me fuck up your world.

You already have.

Chapter Five

Lincoln

A week has passed since Georgia’s fall.