Page 48 of Oliver

He picked up the envelope, scanned the front, then flipped it open. His eyes moved quickly over the note inside.

His jaw tightened.

“What does it say?” I asked.

He hesitated.

“Oliver.”

He handed it to me silently. I took it with shaking hands and read:

You should’ve stayed in the water. Land is dangerous.

There was no signature. No return address. Just those words—and a chill so deep it felt like ice in my spine.

Oliver

I flipped the envelope over again. It was plain, made of cheap paper. No tracking. No fingerprints—not that I would touch it again without gloves. But the message? That was personal. Deliberate.

I pulled Emery into the house, double-locked the door behind us, and flipped the porch light off. Then I went for my phone and called River.

He picked up on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”

“I need a trace team,” I said. “Now.” I told him where we were.

29

Emery

“Ithought it was over,” I whispered, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. The old couch squeaked under me, and the familiar smell of lavender and cedar filled the living room.

River’s voice came in low over Oliver’s speaker. “We think it is over. This might be someone who slipped through. Or… someone looking to stir up fear.”

“Because fear worked last time,” I murmured.

River sighed. “We’ll find out who it is. Just sit tight. I’m sending someone to patrol the area, and we’ll sweep the house before you leave in the morning.”

“Leave?” I looked up sharply. “I’m not running again.”

Oliver met my eyes. “You’re not running. But we’re going back to the safehouse—just for now.”

I hated it. I wanted to scream. To tear the envelope in half and pretend it never existed. But I’d come too far to be stupid now.

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not hiding. Not this time. They found me here. That means whoever knew I was at my house has been watching me.”

“Or it was a good guess when he showed up here,” Oliver said.

30

Oliver

River’s team showed up early the next morning—quiet, efficient, armed.

They swept the house, the yard, the mailbox, even the old crawlspace. Nothing. Not a single trace of the person who left the envelope. No prints. No tire tracks. Just the note.

Which meant it wasn’t just someone sending a message.

It was someone trained to disappear.

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