I had a serious boyfriend in high school. When he broke up with me, I learned the meaning of the term heartbroken.

What I’m feeling right now takes that experience and makes it look insignificant. The pain of that heartbreak stayed in my chest. This pain? Systemic.

My fingertips feel the absence of Connor’s warm skin.

My body yearns for his proximity.

My heart aches to see emotions in his eyes.

My lips crave his kiss.

All of me hungers for all of him.

This is what the great poets meant when they wrote about life-altering love.

“Ugh,” I shriek, frustrated beyond words.

Another crumpled piece of paper joins the small pile on the floor beside me. My legs stretch out under the coffee table. A small stack of white printer paper and a pen are on its surface, and I’m attempting to keep myself together when all I want to do is fall apart.

It’s just a letter. I’ve told myself that so many times it could be considered my mantra for this Sunday morning. All I want is to write Connor a letter that will capture what he meant to me during this time. The problem? I keep writing in present tense. You mean so much to me should read You meant so much to me.

My heart wants Connor in the present. It doesn’t want him placed in the category of past. Usually the brain overrides the heart, but this morning, on my seventh attempt to write him a letter, my heart takes control of my brain. What I feel for him leaks out of my chest, travels my veins, coloring my insides so they’re no longer blood-red but now shades of Connor. The colors leave my fingers as words, and the words don’t say goodbye. They say things I can’t tell him. An admission of love, a brave declaration that I’ll take Eric Prince head-on and fight him like I should.

I can’t say any of that.

Sinking down, I tip my head back and lower it onto the couch cushion behind me. I close my eyes, letting a deep breath fill my chest. This is harder than I knew it would be. I didn’t promise Connor a goodbye, but he deserves one. I straighten and pick up the pen. Maybe my eighth try will be successful.

My phone rings from the kitchen counter.

Connor?

I stand quickly, bumping my knee on the table in my haste. “Ow,” I grumble, rubbing the throbbing bone as I hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone.

My heart sinks when I see the screen. “Darby, hi. How are things?” It’s the same way I greet her every time she calls to update me on my condo. I’m expecting Darby to respond the way she always does, which is basically along the lines of the property looks great, no changes, blah blah blah, but not today.

“Brynn, you seem to have an enemy.” Her voice shakes as she speaks.

Fear sets into my limbs. I know perfectly well I have an enemy. That wasn’t something I shared with my property manager when I hired her, and now the fear that had retreated to arm’s distance is up close again. “What happened?”

“I’m standing at your front door. There’s a big hole in it. It looks like it was kicked in.” She clears her throat. “There was a note in the hole.”

“Read it to me, please.” My voice trembles.

Darby hesitates. She’s breathing into the phone, making a crackling sound. “It’s nasty, Brynn. Are you sure you want me to read it?”

“I need to know what it says, Darby. Please.” My voice is strained in my effort to stay calm.

Over the line, I hear the sound of paper unfolding. “It says, Innocents don’t run. Only fucking whores. I’m going to find you, and when I do, you’ll wish it was dead.”

My limbs, once full of bone and muscle, feel like they’ve been hollowed out with a serving spoon. The acidic taste of bile swirls at the base of my throat.

“Brynn?” Darby sounds afraid. Of me? When I hired her, I didn’t tell her why I was going away. If she recognized me, she didn’t mention it. I was so relieved to be talking face-to-face with someone who didn’t look at me with fear or pity.

“I will take care of this, Darby,” I say, summoning all the strength I have left. “Have you called anybody about the door?”

“Like the police? Because that’s who should be called.” Her voice is high-pitched now. Not quite hysterical but damn near close.

She’s right. My guilt, my shame, my remorse, and regret, can’t be an excuse for allowing an unhinged man to function in society. “Darby, please keep that note. Leave my door alone. I’m going to handle this. You’ll probably receive a call from Detective Wilkes.”

“Brynn, what’s going on?”

“Type my full name in your internet search bar. Just remember that no matter what it says, there’s a reason I’m not in jail, and that I left town. Bye.”

I end the call. Filling my lungs with a deep, shaky breath, I search my contacts. When I added him to my new phone, I hoped to never need him. While the phone rings, my gaze lands on the alarm sitting tucked under the back door. Walking over, I press on it with my big toe until it sounds, then stop. Just checking.

“Hello?”

Tears sting my eyes without warning. Memories of that day flood me. The bright light of the interrogation room, the smell of stale coffee, the eyes of someone who thought maybe I’d hit and killed two people on purpose.

“Hello?” he repeats. It’s a voice I never wanted to hear again.

“Detective Wilkes, this is Elizabeth Montgomery. I need help.”

I didn’t want to do it. I really, really didn’t want to.

My flight is booked. I did it. I closed my eyes and pressed the final button on my computer. A second later my email dinged with my confirmation.

Wiping the one millionth tear from my cheek, I pick up the phone. She answers on the fourth ring.

“Mom, hi.”

“Hey, hon. Hang on.”

I cringe at the airy sound of wind blowing across the phone, and my mom’s muffled voice. “Can you wait a second before you head out? It’s my daughter. I need a moment.” The windy sound disappears. “Okay, that’s better. What’s up?”

“Eric Prince.” She doesn’t have much time to talk, so I get right to the point. “He kicked a hole in the front door at my condo and left a nasty note. He threatened physical violence, and he knows I’ve left town.”

“Did you call—”

“Yes.”

“Thank God. How do you feel? Is there any way he knows where you are? What about the property manager? Does she know where you are? What if he gets ahold of her and she tells him?”

“Mom, calm down. Darby doesn’t know where I went. She can’t tell him something she doesn’t know.”

“So what’s happening now? What did the letter say?”

Eric Prince’s words have been playing on a loop in my mind since Darby finished reading the damn note, but I’m not interested in saying them out loud. “It was bad, I don’t want to go into it. Wilkes is going to Eric’s house to talk to him.”

“Does your building have cameras?”

“Uhh.” I think back to the hallways, trying to see the corner where a camera could be installed. “I don’t know. I’m sure Wilkes is already thinking of that, though.”

“I’m worried about you. I always am, but I’m really worried now. Let me see if I can make some arrangements and get that money to you faster. I want you out of Arizona. Ummm,” she pauses, and I would bet a hundred dollars she’s biting down on a pencil as she thinks. It’s her thing. “Let me talk to your dad. He’s out on the boat. Maybe he’ll think of something I haven’t yet.”

“Mom, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Friday is fine. The car I ordered can’t pick me up until Saturday morning.”

“I bet that wasn’t cheap.”

“Don’t ask,” I tell her.

She lets out a low whistle.

I don’t want to think about the cost right now. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay. “Wilkes said he’ll need my other letters, and I told him I’d give them to him before my flight on Saturday.”

“I want you out of there ASAP.” Her voice is stern. If there were any way I could laugh right now, I’d be cackling over her tone. Strict isn’t a word that could ever be applied to my mother’s parenting style. Laissez-faire? Much more accurate.

“I’m working on it.”

“And Connor?”

“I thought you only had a moment to talk?”

“Just tell me so I can go.”

“It’s over, and that’s good, because I need to leave.” It hurts my heart to even say the words.

“You’re okay?”

“Yep.” The lie slips smoothly through my teeth, but the immediate sadness I feel gurgles around in my core.

“No you’re not. I can tell.”

I sigh. “You’re right. I’m not okay. It hurts.”

“I’m sorry sweetie.”

“I knew better than to let this happen. I just,” my lips purse and I see Connor’s face, his grin, his messy morning hair. “I just didn’t know a man like him would be here.”

“I love you, babe. Everything will work out. Friday, okay? We’ll get you out of there.”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you. Bye.”

Her voice trails through the phone as I hang up, and I know she’s yelling to whoever was waiting for her. Standing by for Wilkes to call is going to drive me nuts. So are the questions running through my mind. Is he at Eric Prince’s house right now? Has Eric admitted it? What if he does? Will he go to jail? Will I press charges? Do I even want to? Maybe he needs mental help, not jail. If he gets better, can I stay here? Can I be with Connor?

I grab my purse and leave the small house that has become my safe haven. I always lock the door. It’s such a habit that I do it without thinking, but today I’m careful and deliberate, absorbing the reverberation against my fingers when the key slips into the lock. My ears strain to hear the satisfying thunk as the lock slides into place.

Today it means more.

I head for the grocery store. At first I found it depressing when the employees there learned my name, but know I think maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s nice. For years I went to the same grocery store in Phoenix, and nobody ever learned my name. I didn’t bother to learn theirs either. There was always the perfunctory How are you from the cashier and my expected response Good, thanks, how are you? What would’ve it taken to learn their name? One second, maybe two? I was too busy, rushing from one event to the next, making friends and widening my circle so I could find the right people to come to the clubs and make the owners happy.

I spent all my time on people who knew nothing about me except my name and which club I could get them into, and the worst part? I didn’t know a damn thing about them either. I spent my time on them, my precious, dwindling time, and it amounted to nothing. Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours, and then suddenly it was years of empty and fake friendships.

I was so used to seeing right through people that when I saw Amy Prince and she needed help, I looked through her like she was transparent. What would’ve changed if I’d said hello to her? Could I have offered to soothe her baby? Bought her a croissant from the cafe in the bookstore and sat down across from her, asked her about herself and what she liked to do?

I am not guilty of involuntary manslaughter.

I am guilty of keeping my hands to myself when I saw someone falling.

Detective Wilkes calls as I stand in aisle three.

“Eric Prince says he never sent you any letters or kicked in your door.” My shoulders slump, my internal debate over which cereal to buy forgotten. He continues. “I went to your property manager’s office and got the note she found this morning. Brynn, I’m sorry to tell you this, but it appears to be a female’s handwriting.”

I sigh quietly, my gaze dropping from the boxes of cereal to the floor. “Now what?”

“I have someone looking into cameras that may have been running in the area this morning. From nearby businesses and such. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

“How was he?”

“Prince? Seemed okay, I guess. A little disheveled, maybe I woke him.”

I’d been picturing him as someone with a deranged glint in his eye, dirty clothes, and unkempt, too-long hair. Very different from the clean-cut guy in the family photo the news sites kept using.

“A few months ago Amy’s mother found a journal. I didn’t call you because I hoped you were moving on and didn’t want to stir the pot, but you might as well know now.” He clears his throat and continues. “We can’t be certain unless we have it examined by a therapist, but it sounds like Amy was dealing with postpartum depression.”

Oh. Ohhh. That makes sense. That day in the bookstore… I never told anyone I saw her before the moment she stepped off the curb. I didn’t want people to know she’d ignored her crying infant. Postpartum depression…

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say quietly. “Do you still want the letters I was sent?”

“It wouldn’t hurt for me to see them,” he says. “Drop them off like we discussed. If anything comes up, I’ll be in touch.” Wilkes hangs up.

I sigh and rub my eyes, mentally sorting through everything. I’ve never considered the possibility it could be anyone but Eric Prince.

If not him, then who?