Octavia is a mass of nerves, and my own thoughts are too much of a fucking tangle to reassure her everything will be okay.

It has to, right? If Ross is doing this, the police are on it. And what the hell will he do? Kill more cats? Write on the windows?

Fucking boo.

I’ll take that fucker down, if the police refuse to touch him. Scaring us, scaring my kids and my girl isn’t fucking acceptable.

My girl.

Fuck.

If not for the unease in my gut telling me this isn’t over, that things will get worse, I’d have gone off to punch something.

Because if this crazy psycho has it in for me and my kids, then he has it in for her, too—and if she got one threatening message already, then I’m scared goddamn shitless it won’t be the last.

I was weightless last night. Free. Not pinned down. With her in my arms, I was flying on top of the nightmares, never sucked in.

Now it feels as though the weight of the world has crashed back down on me.

Leaving Octavia with the kids, I call John Elba and tell him what happened, more to keep him up-to-date than expecting anything to be done.

As predicted, he says the words were probably already in the book when I moved here, or were written by some kid when I was leaving Cole with Dolly.

“I’m sorry to say it, Hansen,” he says. “But if this isn’t a prank like I think and you’re right that this is some psycho, then the key is you. It all points to you. You are the link.”

“Is that so?” I growl, just because I know no other way of letting my frustration out.

“That is so. Octavia got a message, and she is connected to you. She says her boyfriend got a message, and he is connected through her to y—”

“He’s not her goddamn boyfriend.”

There’s a silence at the other end of the line.

It allows me to think about what I’ve said, and how I said it.

Jesus.

But John goes on, “And then the messages you got point to your kids and your past. Nobody is talking about Octavia’s past. Only about her connection to you.”

About me fucking her.

I don’t know what’s going on, but somehow I dragged her into my shit, into the bullying I want to save her from, and maybe into real danger, too.

“John…” I hesitate. I’ve closed myself off for so long it’s hard opening up to people, but hell, I’m trying. If anything, what I feel around Octavia made me realize I have to start relying on people more. “I have a bad hunch about this.”

There, I’ve said it. It’s off my fucking chest.

Or it should be, but it’s still there, dammit—weighing a ton, crushing my lungs.

“Is there something else you know?” John asks quietly. “Anything you remembered, or figured out?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Could this be about a woman? An ex-girlfriend?”

“But why? And why now? Above all, what would Ross have to do with it?”

“You’re convinced it’s him, huh?”

“That motherfucker.” Keeping my temper is a struggle. “You don’t believe it’s him? Even his own father believes it.”

“I believe in evidence,” John says. “Even some clues and hints wouldn’t hurt at this point, and we have nothing. So lie low for a while, all right? Don’t go punching Ross again. Let us do our job.”

“Isn’t it your fucking job to find those clues and catch that asshole?” And I hang up on him because what else is there to say?

I could tell him where to shove it, yeah, but insulting a cop? Not the best idea when you want him to catch the psycho hounding you and your own.

But then what the hell is left to do?

* * *

Like Octavia told me this morning, I have text messages on my phone, from Zane and Kaden. Missed calls, too.

My finger hovers over the call button.

What am I gonna do? Shovel my shit on their doorstep? Tell them, what, that I can’t deal with a few messages that make no sense and a dead cat on my doorstep, and that they should drive over and hold my hand?

Fuck that.

So I compromise. I send them each a quick message saying “Still alive,” since they’ve been wondering about that, and throw my phone on the kitchen table.

Run a hand over my face.

What next?

Ross.

John doesn’t believe Ross is behind the messages. He thinks I’m the link.

The link to what?

An ex-girlfriend, John said. We’ve been over that. I had one before I left St. Louis back when I was eighteen. I was with her during my last year of high school.

We broke up a couple months before I skipped town. What was her name again? Elina. Alina. The family name was something Russian. Solokov?

Yeah, that was it. Pretty girl. Blond. Curvy. Nice. What would she have to do with any of this shit?

“Remember who you left behind.”

Nah, this is bullshit. Who I left behind could be just about anyone in St. Louis. Or in Milwaukee. Literally anyone I ever met in my life.

But what is most precious to me? Am I supposed to combine the messages?

Who I left behind.

What is most precious to me.

You will lose what she has lost.

And the first message. You will suffer for your sins.

What has she lost? Who? What sins?

The only clear thing is that he’s targeting my children, and Octavia. That is has to do with a woman, who lost something. Something precious.

Because of me.

Or so this asshole thinks, and he’s out to punish me.

I hit my fist lightly on the wall by the window, and again, just to feel the light sting on my knuckles, just for the illusion that I’m fighting something tangible, not a ghost.

Not a nightmare.

Assuming that the woman the message refers to is Alina Solokov… what the hell happened to her? Who did she lose? Her boyfriend? Her husband? Her children? Her goddamn cat? How do I know what she did after I left? How do I know why I’m being punished for it?

What the hell, right?

Unless…

Unless.

Jesus Fuck. I did sleep with her a few times. We were careful, but what if we weren’t careful enough? What if…?

I stare at the wall without seeing it, the nightmare spreading again its oily ripples around me. Because, if what I’m thinking is true, if it really happened, then the riddle is starting to make sense. It’s appearing from the dark, piece by piece, like one of those magic pictures, and it doesn’t look good.

Not fucking good at all.

A quick search for her name on the internet on my phone brings up dozens of profiles but none that seem to belong to her.

So that’s when I call John back and tell him my theory and my ex-girlfriend’s name, and hope to hell I’m wrong.

* * *

When Octavia says she should go, I nod and watch her gather her purse and light coat, my mind a thousand miles away.

And yet I’m aware of her, her scent, her movements, her presence. My eyes, my whole body strains toward her even as I fight it.

“Will you be okay?” she asks, her eyes seeing right through me. “Did something else happen?”

“No,” I offer the half-lie. Because nothing has happened, not yet. It’s just an idea that might or might not prove to be true. “I’ll be fine. You’ve done a lot already.”

For some reason, her slender shoulders tense, and her eyes dim. “Sure thing. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Wait… Monday?

And why the fuck do I care that she looks disappointed, except… I do. I do care.

“Tay, wait.” I get up and walk over to her. I slip my arm around her waist as she turns back around, and tug her against me, loving the way her body fits on mine. “Thank you. For everything.”

Her mouth curves into a faint smile, her eyes lighting up. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

“And for taking care of the kids, and talking to the police, and calling my mother, and… everything.”

Her smile brightens. Her gaze drops to my mouth, and she licks her lips.

So I kiss her. I can’t help myself. Drawing her out of sight of the kids, I taste her mouth, fuck it with my tongue, then back her up against the wall and kiss her until all my air runs out and she’s gasping against my lips.

When I draw back, she looks dazed. “I, uh…”

I fucking love how she’s blanked out, her lips red and swollen, her breaths uneven. “Yeah?”

“You…”

“Me and you. And the kids. Picnic in the garden, tomorrow?”

Her eyes widen. “Really? I mean, that sounds great.”

“Awesome.” And I am really pleased. The thought of a weekend without her is… strange. Uncomfortable.

Nearly unbearable.

Jesus, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with her. I keep trying to pull back, but I can’t.

I’m sort of trying to date her. Which is ridiculous. Fucking stupid.

But she’s smiling. She looks happy.

Like I feel.

And although this is a familiar dance, one I tried years back with Emma, although it should feel familiar… it doesn’t. It feels brand new. Totally fucking different.

Totally fucking terrifying.

But I’m not a man to back away from a challenge, and I’m already in too deep to make it to shore, so I might as well just keep swimming.