Page 62 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
I watch for another beat. The windows jump up the second the driver notices me watching.
My heart thrums. I grab my phone and call Asher. He’s on patrol and at least thirty minutes out.
“I think Harold’s men are here,” I whisper. “Black sedan. Tinted. Parked across the street. I don’t like this, Asher.”
“Jasmine,” he says, voice steady. “Data, not panic. Is Harold himself there?”
“I can’t see through the glass.”
“If he is, we have probable cause to question him. If not—”
“I can’t tell. The tint’s ridiculous.”
“Jasmine?” Brick’s small voice makes me spin. He’s in pajamas, hair askew, a widening yawn splitting his face. “Is Dad back?”
“He’ll be home soon,” I say, smoothing my voice. “Why don’t you get ready for school? You don’t want to be late on the first day of the week.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Brick and Asher say in unison, one in my ear, one in the kitchen.
“Just— please go get dressed,” I ask Brick, and he trudges up the stairs. I peek through the blinds again—and freeze. “It’s—”
“What?”
“It’s gone.” I stare at empty curb where a car was parked sixty seconds ago. “What exactly is going on here?”
“I’ll call you back,” Asher says. The line clicks dead.
I keep staring like the sedan might flicker back into being. It doesn’t. The street looks normal in that smug way streets do when you’re spiraling … sprinklers ticking, a neighbor’s wind chime arguing with itself.
Okay. Data, not drama.
I unlock the deadbolt and crack the door. The morning air is cool, threaded with cut grass and someone’s overconfident cologne. I step onto the porch and stay in the shadow of the eave. No heroics. Just eyes.
From here I can see the curb where the car was idling—two dark freckles of oil on the asphalt, fresh enough to shine. A cigarette butt smudged into the gutter: filter branded with a tiny gold crown. Cute. I lift my phone and zoom on the opposite corner where the sedan likely pulled away. Fresh tire tracks arc through dust, clean as chalk lines.
“Jasmine?” Mr. Lou next door shuffles out in a bathrobe the color of oatmeal and waves a spoon. “You see the Amazon fella this early? He near ran over my ceramic quail.”
“Morning, Mr. Lou. No Amazon,” I call back, forcing lightness. “Please protect the quail at all costs.”
He nods gravely, as if I’ve entrusted him with national security, and disappears.
I snap three quick photos: oil spots, the crushed cigarette, the faint tread. The camera catches a sliver of something under our doormat. I kneel, lift the corner. A plain white envelope slides free, no stamp, my name typed on a label.
Of course.
My pulse hops. I don’t open it outside. I back in, flip the deadbolt, and carry the thing to the kitchen island like it might wriggle. I text Riley first:
Me: You awake?
Riley: I teach teenagers. I’m never awake. What’s up?
Me: Possible creeps-outside-my-house situation. Black sedan, tinted, vanished. Oil drips + fancy cigarette + envelope under mat addressed to me.
Riley: Cool, cool, cool. Move to Norway. Open it. But like… gingerly.
I slide a butter knife under the flap. Inside: a single photocopy of my own counteroffer paperwork—someone’s scrawled a new number across the top in red marker, a number so high it makes me queasy. No letter. Just a sticky note, typed like the label:
“Last chance.”
