Page 20 of Knotting With A Stranger

“Is James even his real name?”

The question hits harder than it should. “I... assume it is.” But now doubt creeps in, the way it always does when Hannah gets that tone.

She pulls out her phone. “What’s his number?”

“What are you doing?”

“Remember how we set up Ruby with those blind dates?” A slight smile crosses her face. “Well, one of them, Dominic is a security specialist—basically a legal hacker. And he owes us one for introducing him to Ruby. If anyone can track down this number, it’s him.”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around my phone. “Hannah...”

“Come on, Lily. Let me at least try. For my peace of mind?”

I stare at her for a long moment, then slowly recite the number. My stomach knots as she types it into her phone and messages it to Dominic.

“Done,” she finally says, hitting send. “Now we wait.”

The next few hours in the bakery crawl by like molasses. Every time the bell over the door chimes, I jump. Every ping from a phone makes my heart race. I mess up three orders and nearly burn a batch of snickerdoodles. Hannah keeps shooting me concerned glances between customers.

Late afternoon, just as I’m pulling a tray of sourdough from the oven, Hannah bursts through the swinging doors from the front of the shop, her phone in hand. I freeze, still holding the bread paddle.

“Is it Dominic?” I ask, barely breathing.

She nods, eyes scanning her screen. “He says based on the area code, he was able to triangulate—whatever that means—and narrow it down to a rural area. There’s some kind of facility there...”

“What kind?” Something in my chest constricts as I watch her face.

“It’s the Alpine Ridge Correctional Facility,” she says carefully.

The world tilts sideways. “What?”

“Are you sure he said he was a chef?”

My mind races through our conversations. He’d talked about cooking, about recipes, about kitchen disasters, but had he ever actually said where he worked?

“Maybe...” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Maybe he’s a guard there. That would explain the phone, right? And the weird hours, and...”

“Or,” Hannah says gently. “He could have an illegal phone, and he’s an inmate.”

“No.” But even as I say it, pieces start clicking into place. The vague answers about his work. The specific times he’d message me. The way he’d deflect questions about sending me photos of where he was. And never wanting to do a video call.

“He sent me a photo of his shoes in his hand, but he hasn’t asked me for photos of me,” I protest weakly, pulling out my phone.

Hannah studies the image. “That could be anything. Prison kitchen uniform, for all we know.”

My hands shake as I type to James.Hey... what exactly do you do for a living? Where are you right now?

“Lily...” Hannah reaches for my hand.

“He’ll explain,” I insist. “There has to be?—”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“Last week. But he already told me he’d explain everything when we met.”

Hannah’s eyes fill with sympathy. “Of course he did. Probably when he gets released or escapes.”

“Stop it.” My stomach drops.

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