Page 8 of My Mountain Man Stalker
The silence that follows is heavy. Thicker than the heat rising from the stove.
“My dad,” I echo. “You knew him?”
“We served together.”
My stomach flips. “You were in the military?”
“Yeah.”
That’s it. No rank. No details. Justyeah.
“And my dad—he knew something would happen to him?”
“He didn’t know when. But he knew it would come.”
I try to imagine the conversations they must’ve had. My dad with his gravel voice and thousand-yard stare, sitting across from this man. Making plans. Asking him to protect me if he didn’t make it home.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“He used to tell me I’d be okay,” I whisper. “Even before his last deployment, he always said,You’ll be okay. I made sure.” I look up at Hale. “He meant you.”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away.
I shift on the bed. The cabin creaks in the wind outside.
“I guess this is the part where I tell you what I did,” I say, voice low.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, waiting.
I take a breath and force it out.
“I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just had a bad feeling. Liam was acting off—hiding things, getting controlling, paranoid. And I found the SD card hidden behind a drawer in his desk.” I pause. “I only watched the first video. I didn’t need to see more.”
His face doesn’t change, but his knuckles go white against the edge of the chair.
“They were girls,” I whisper. “Barely legal. High. Scared. He was filming them like it was some kind of trophy collection. There were men’s voices in the background. Laughter. It was disgusting.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I ran. Took the card. Then I disappeared.”
Hale’s voice is low. “And now they’re trying to erase the evidence. Starting with you.”
“Yeah.”
A long silence stretches between us. The storm outside starts to rattle against the windows.
Then he says it. Simple. Steady.
“I’ll take care of you.”
The words slide into my ribs like a balm and a blade all at once.
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper.
“I’ve known you longer than you think.”
His eyes hold mine like he’s seeing all the versions of me—the broken, the bruised, the reckless kid trying to outrun her grief.
