Page 35 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
Subject: I WILL find you…
I just got off the phone with the new private investigator I hired. He’s much more efficient than the last one. He found your previous dump of a motel.
Really, Emma? Is that how you want to live when I have a penthouse in the city and a mansion by the ocean?
How disappointing.
The good news is that your mother and I were able to file a missing persons report.
You’ll be safe back home very soon.
I always get what I want.
This little game has been fun, but it ends now.
-M
15
Emma
The package doesn’t arrive.
I wait by my cottage window all morning, watching the delivery truck make its methodical way around the farm, dropping off supplies. But nothing for cottage number two. Nothing for me. When the truck finally pulls away, I sink onto my sofa, a hand pressed against my mouth to stifle the sound of distress that wants to escape.
The online pharmacy’s tracking information shows that the package was delayed in transit due to its remote location.
Estimated delivery: tomorrow.
Maybe.
My fingers tremble as I open the orange bottle and shake the last pill into my palm. It looks small and insignificant, like this tiny white circle between me and potential disaster. I should save it, a voice in my head argues. Hold it for when I absolutely need it. But another voice, louder and more insistent, reminds me that withdrawal symptoms from suppressants can be severe. Going cold turkey could mean not just revealing my omega status but potentially triggering a stress heat—the worst possible scenario.
I swallow the pill with water, then apply two scent patches. For good measure, I apply a third to the inside of my wrist, where the scent gland is less pronounced but still active.
“Just get through today. The package will come tomorrow.”
I send Theo a text: “Feeling under the weather. Working from the cottage today.”
Theo’s response comes almost immediately: “No worries! Rest up. Want me to bring coffee, scones, or soup? Homemade chicken noodle = miracle cure.”
The offer is tempting, but I can’t risk it.
“Thanks, but better not. Might be contagious. Will let you know if I need anything.”
I turn back to my work, but the words swim on the screen, refusing to come into focus. The dizziness is worsening, a floating sensation that makes me grip the table’s edge for stability even though I’m sitting down. I should lie down, close my eyes, wait for this to pass. But the thought of being even more vulnerable makes anxiety spike through me. So I push it down and work.
Work is good. It will distract me.
A knock at the door makes me jump, heart racing painfully in my chest.
“Emma, it’s Theo. I know you’re not feeling well. I’m just leaving this tray outside for you in case you change your mind. Rowan insisted I add some cookies, too.”
I wait until his footsteps fade away before approaching the door. My body feels weak and feverish as I cross the small cottage. When I open the door, I blink in surprise.
It is no simple tray—there’s a feast. A thermos of coffee sits beside a bowl of steaming soup, both nestled in a wicker basket. A small crystal vase holds wildflowers; I recognize orange and yellow blooms from the farm’s gardens. Scones are arranged on a plate beside homemade cookies, still slightly warm, judging by the chocolate that glistens on their surface.
A handwritten note leans against the vase.
