Page 5 of Howling Night

He stepped back, and I felt like I could breathe again. “Go home. And stick to daylight walks from now on.”

I nodded, already backing away. He stepped along with me, staying back several feet.

“Please stop following me. I know my way back,” I said, drawing in a shaky breath.

He pressed his lips together. “I’ve got my eyes on you.”

I paused, feeling a flare of indignation cut through my fear. I’d moved here to escape men who thought they had any right to control me or make threats.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “Instead, it might be better if we just avoid each other going forward. I’ll pretend I never met you, and you pretend you never met me.”

His eyes widened slightly, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch into almost a smile. But it was gone so fast, I might have imagined it.

“You didn’t meet me,” he said, slinking back into the shadows.

Then… he was gone. He was right, though. I didn’t meet him, and I hoped that I never would. Next time, I might not be so kind, especially if I’m not cornered in the middle of the woods.

ChapterThree

The morning sunlight streamed through my open windows, illuminating dozens of half-opened boxes scattered across the living room floor. After I’d gotten back home, I’d spent most of the night in a fog after my strange encounter in the woods.

I’d slept on the couch and gotten up in the middle of the night several times to make sure the door had been locked. Today, though, was about making this house feel like mine. I wasn’t going to let that brute scare me off from… from whatever he was trying to scare me away from.

I sliced open another cardboard box and started unpacking the mismatched mugs I’d collected over the years. The kitchen was small but functional, with outdated appliances, but the size wasn’t much different from what I was used to back in the city. I arranged my sparse collection of pots and pans, wondering if I’d actually use them more often now that I wasn’t working fourteen-hour days.

“Ugh,” I groaned, rubbing my back as I moved to the next box.

I placed books on the shelves, pillows on the couch, and then arranged the small collection of framed photographs on the end tables. There was a picture of me and my mom on one of her good days, and another of me and Annie.

I hung my favorite painting — a stormy lake scene — above the fireplace, then stood back to assess. Not bad. This place could actually feel like home.

Hours passed in a blur of box cutting, unwrapping, and arranging. I lost myself in the methodical work, pretending I didn’t keep replaying the argument over and over in my head. At least the physical labor was somehow more satisfying than anything I’d accomplished in my glass-walled downtown Chicago office.

When I finally paused, muscles aching, I glanced at my phone to check the time. Nearly four in the afternoon.

My stomach let out an angry growl, and I pressed a hand to it in an attempt to silence it. I hadn’t eaten anything since the toaster pastry I’d scarfed down with my morning coffee. I rubbed my temples, trying to think through the hunger-induced headache that had crept up on me.

“Ugh, must eat,” I muttered to myself as I walked to the fridge and pulled the door open. The empty white interior looked back at me, reminding me I needed to add the grocery store to my to-do list. “Shit.”

I grabbed my purse and keys, giving myself a quick look in the mirror. My hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, but I decided it was good enough. It wasn’t like I’d moved here to impress anyone.

Birchwood Hollow’s main street was exactly what you’d expect from a small town — charming storefronts with hand-painted signs, diagonal parking spots, and flower pots with white and purple carnations at every corner.

I pulled my SUV into one of the many spots out front of May’s Diner. Even though it was getting close to dinnertime, it wasn’t very busy.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered. A couple of older men at the counter turned but quickly went back to their food when they realized it wasn’t anyone they knew.

A waitress in her late fifties gestured at the booths. “Sit wherever you like, honey. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” I said, picking a booth at the far end.

In less than a minute, she was back with a pot of coffee and a menu. “I’m Sheila, and I’ll be helping you today. Well, really, it’ll be me pretty much anytime you stop in unless Tonya is covering me. Anyway, coffee?”

“Please,” I said, flipping my mug over.

“You’re new here,” Sheila said, her nearly white curly hair bouncing as she shifted her weight.

It wasn’t a question. I smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

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