My teeth sink into my lip as I rip open the envelope with trembling hands. The sound of paper tearing is barely audible over the murmur of voices, the buzz of a coffee grinder, and the ding of a cash register.

Judson’s sixth letter to me in two weeks arrived yesterday, but I didn’t have the guts to open it. I carried it around campus all day today, and finally to my afternoon shift at Millie’s. I came close to opening it last night, but chickened out at the last second.

I haven’t written him since my argument with Chelsea a week and a half ago. As much as I want to ignore the warnings from Paulette, Jennifer, and Chelsea, a small voice at the back of my mind won’t give me peace. It nags me nonstop until I’m sick to my stomach. I even threw up last night, nauseous from all the thoughts running circles inside my head. With final exams around the corner, the last thing I need is more stress.

After so much conflict and heartache, the rational part of my mind has finally forced me to see sense. There’s too much evidence online and via word of mouth to indicate that Judson murdered Oliver. And I cannot be in touch with a murderer, no matter how charming he is.

I used to look forward to Judson’s letters. I loved how much they turned me on, and the emotions they awakened inside of me have not disappeared. My heart is still desperate to explore what we started, but his letters have become increasingly demanding, and it’s shaken me.

The cushion moves out of place as I shift in my chair at the Snowflake Bakery, where I sometimes have a coffee during my lunch break. After a few deep breaths I finally pull the neatly folded letter out of its envelope. The bakery is known for its delicious pastries, and they recently added wonderful homemade bread sandwiches to their menu. My ham and pepperoni sandwich is long gone, and my second cup of coffee has gone cold. Ten minutes until I have to return to work. I can’t walk out of this place without reading the letter.

I inhale the coffee- and cinnamon-scented air, and smooth the paper out on the table. As I start to read, nothing distracts me—not the child crying at a nearby table, a metal spoon falling to the wooden floor, or the whirr of the frothing machine. My sole focus is on the page, and the large words scrawled across it.

Stop ignoring me. It’s really starting to piss me off. Judson

I jerk back in my chair as though slapped across the cheek. They’re only words, but the thick anger tucked into the spaces between the letters is palpable.

My hand moves to my throat as I struggle to pull air into my lungs. The air is too thick.

With hands shaking in big tremors, I push the letter back into the envelope, not bothering to fold it. I shove my chair back and stand. I’ve already paid for my meal, so I walk out into the fresh air, gulping in mouthful after mouthful as my head spins. Once I’m able to breathe normally again, I cross the street and head back to work.

For the first time, the fresh, crisp smell of new books, and the open and excited faces of readers looking to embark on a new adventure don’t give me that warm and fuzzy feeling. I almost trip in my leather sandals as I hurry up the stairs toward Millie’s office.

I find her in the crafts and hobbies aisle, tugging a hardback off the shelf and handing it to a tall, skinny woman in a patterned wrap dress and flip-flops.

I wait impatiently next to one of the red couches placed strategically throughout the store. For a moment Millie glances at me with a questioning expression, but then returns her attention to the customer, who’s now flipping the glossy book over to read the back copy.

Millie Schroeder is a svelte woman in her fifties, of Austrian origin. She always wears dark pantsuits, and walks with incredible grace. She once revealed to me that she was a ballerina well into her teens.

To my relief, the customer looks up at Millie with a smile. They exchange a few more words, before Millie nods and they part. Next, Millie heads in my direction as the customer descends the steps, perhaps to pay for the book.

“My goodness, Ivy.” Millie’s silken voice and the scent of Chanel No. 5 reach me before she does. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.” Her powder-blue eyes narrow with concern. She places a hand on my arm and gives me a slight nudge. “Let’s go to the office. You can tell me all about it.”

A barely audible laugh escapes my lips. I shake my head. “No, no, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not feeling too well. I have a bad migraine. Do you mind if I end my shift now? I can make up for it next week.”

Millie glances at her silver wristwatch and nods her head, her sharp black bob sweeping her high cheekbones. “That won’t be a problem at all. Go home and get some rest.”

“Thanks, Millie.” I sigh with relief. Guilt nudges me gently, but I ignore it. I didn’t lie to her—not really. Though I’m not actually tormented by physical pain, the emotional chaos racking my brain will make it hard to focus on work.

“Sure. See you next Friday.”

I pause outside the bookstore, the sunshine beating down on my head, neck, and shoulders. I take a few deep breaths and stroll down the street. The heaviness of Judson’s note weighs down my leather tote bag. I know what I should do. Instead of ignoring him, I should write him one last letter to make a clean break, to sever whatever twisted bond we have formed, and move on with my life. But as terrified as I am of a future with him, I’m terrified of one without him, too. What is it that ties me so tightly to him? Why can’t I walk away? We haven’t even kissed, touched, or made love. And yet I feel as though we have.

A blast of sea air manages to cut through the few shops, sweeping my hair clear off one shoulder. The wind is comforting and refreshing, invisible fingers that caress me when I’m down. My bike is parked at the corner of Sage and Ridge streets. I hope onto it, but instead of taking my normal route that would get me to the dorms in less than twenty minutes, I take the long one, cycling furiously past Jolene’s Diner, Faith Chapel, the Oaklow Homeless Shelter, and endless rows of cottages. Half an hour later, I reach the dorms.

The fresh air hasn’t helped. My nerves are more frazzled than ever.

I hop off my bike and walk it toward the gate. A royal blue Mercedes is parked to one side, and a stocky man with dark glasses and slicked-back hair is leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. Of course, behind the dark glasses, he could have been staring at anything. But my instincts tell me I’m the focus of his attention.

I look away and enter the gates. The hairs at the back of my neck bristle with each step. My already overworked heart slams against my chest.

I can’t help it: I take a glance back.

The man tosses his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. His eyes stay fixed in my direction. He folds his arms across his chest.

What the hell does he want? There’s no one else on this path. It has to be me he’s interested in. My knees are almost jelly as I force myself forward.

Don’t be a fool, Ivy. You’re not the center of the world. Maybe he’s waiting for someone.

Assuring myself doesn’t stop me from feeling creeped out. I hold my breath as I leave my bike in the shed, and approach the steps leading up to the dorm. At the top of the steps, I turn to look again. He’s no longer at his car, but has stepped inside the gates and is standing next to the pond, talking on his phone, as much with his hands as with his voice. He looks as though he’s having an argument. All the while his eyes stay on me.

Shit.

A sickening thought arrests me, and I find myself stumbling through the door of my room, my heart inside my throat. What if the man is working for Judson? What if Judson is having me watched? But that’s ridiculous. Why would he do that? And yet the thought refuses to let go of me all the way down the corridor to my room.

I burst into the room and lock the door behind me. Leaning my back against it, I shut my eyes. My right hand rests on my chest as I try to calm my breathing.

Feeling somewhat settled, I call out for Chelsea, in case she’s in the bathroom. No answer; only her vanilla and rose perfume lingers in the air.

I hurry to my computer and go online. The news sites reveal nothing new about Judson. He’s still behind bars. But does that mean anything? He managed to send me gifts from behind bars. He managed to get hold of a cell phone behind bars. He wanted to send me money. What else is he able to do?

I slump onto the couch and let out a breath.

Stop it. He’s not stalking you. You’re imagining things.

Except, Jennifer told me that when she cut off contact with Judson, she no longer felt safe. I wish I had asked for more details. Was she being stalked? Is history repeating itself?

I can’t let this go—I need my peace of mind back.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone and write Judson a text message. I’m not sure if he still has the cell phone, but it’s worth a try. A letter will take too long to reach him. Waiting even a day is unbearable.

I don’t think as I type the words. I write what comes to mind.

Quit stalking me. It’s not funny. You’re scaring me.

I send the message and wipe the sweat off my phone. I drop it beside me, waiting. The beep comes less than two minutes later.

Scaring you was not my intention, my love. I only want you to know there will be consequences if you pull away from me.

My heart drops at the same time as my phone. Oh my God.

I rush to the window and yank back the curtain. I can see the gates, but the Mercedes is gone. No mysterious man there. I could have dreamed it.

Except Judson has just confirmed that I didn’t.