Page 96 of We Can Stay
It’s this. It’s us.
It’s everything.
CHAPTER 29
Flick
I sit at my kitchen table thinking about the photos I turned into the police station a few days ago. They’d been polite but honest—without a clear image of who dropped them, there wasn’t much to go on. Just another dead end in this nightmare that’s consumed my life for weeks. Unless I can figure out who the initials “J.R.” belong to.
My gaze shifts to the paper and I stare at the initials I scrawled there. J.R. The letters blur as I trace them with my pen, something nagging at the edges of my memory.
“John? Jack?” I mutter, tapping the pen against the table. The rhythm matches my racing heartbeat. “Jennifer? No, that doesn’t feel right.”
Cat jumps onto the table, batting at my pen with determined paws. I absently scratch behind her ears while my mind churns through possibilities. The kitchen smells like wet wool and vinegar from this morning’s dyeing session—a batch of sunset oranges that turned out perfect despite my distracted state.
J.R. Why does it feel so familiar?
“Jaquelyn?” I try the name out loud, but it tastes wrong on my tongue.
Then it hits me like ice water down my spine.
Jenna. Jenna Rivers.
The pen slips from my fingers, clattering against the floor. Cat startles, her tail puffing up as she leaps away.
“Oh my God.” The words come out as barely a whisper.
My hands shake as I grab my phone, scrolling through months of messages. There she is—JennaR_Fiber Arts. My “superfan.” The one who bought every colorway, who gushed over my techniques, who I’d thrown in extra skeins for because she seemed so genuinely supportive of small businesses.
Love your latest batch! The way you capture morning light in fiber is pure magic.
Can’t wait to see what you’re working on next!
Your talent deserves so much recognition. You’re going to be huge one day.
The messages stop abruptly two weeks ago. When Sebastian blocked the account. Right when the creepy package arrived.
My chest tightens—not the pericarditis this time, just pure fear. I press my palm against my sternum anyway, a habit now. The steroids have been working, keeping the inflammation at bay, but stress isn’t helping.
I dial Sebastian’s number with trembling fingers. He picks up on the first ring.
“I know who it is.” The words tumble out before I can even say hello.
“Tell me.” No hesitation, no questions about what I’m talking about. He just knows.
“Jenna Rivers. She’s been buying my yarn for months. We’ve exchanged dozens of messages. I thought she was just enthusiastic about my work, but Sebastian, the timing?—”
“I’m coming to get you. Give me fifteen minutes.” I hear rustling in the background, probably him already grabbing his keys. “We’ll go to the station together.”
“You don’t have to leave work. I can drive myself?—”
“Flick.” His voice softens. “Let me be there for you. Please.”
The simple request breaks through my automatic walls. This is what we’ve been working on—me accepting help, him offering without taking over.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“I’m on my way now.”
