Inside, empty—except for a folded napkin on the console.
Four handwritten words:
Check your backyard tonight.
A threat. A promise. A game he wasn’t done playing.
After the wedding, I drove home with Lila asleep in the back seat. When we finally arrived, I searched the house, locked every door, then stepped into the backyard with a flashlight.
That’s when I found it.
A key buried beneath the maple tree.
My house key.
A chill threaded down my spine. He’d been close. Maybe inside.
Over the next days, an unfamiliar silver car parked across the street, never moving. Always watching. Detective Reeves came when I called, but the moment he approached, the car screeched away.
The night after, footsteps circled our home.
Then a figure appeared at the edge of the yard—silent, still—before melting into the shadows as police arrived.
The next morning a package showed up at my door.
Inside:
A single photograph.
Me, at the wedding.
On the back:
You were supposed to leave when I told you.
But now it’s too late.
We’re not done.
As I read the message, Lila tugged my sleeve.
“Mom… look outside.”
A car sat across the street.
Not the silver one.
A black one now. Windows pitch dark. Engine off.
Waiting.
Watching.