Red lights.

They burn in the gray, weeping rain like two coals dragged straight from hell. The car isn't moving. It isn't turning. It's just sitting there, idling in the middle of the intersection, a dark, sleek beast waiting for its prey to bolt.

My heart isn't just beating—it’s slamming against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, the rhythm erratic and painful. Breath traps somewhere in my throat, a solid lump of panic. Inhale. Exhale. Neither comes easily. The world narrows down to those twin points of red light through the rain-streaked glass.

Move, the silent scream tears through my mind. Please, just move.

But the car remains motionless.

"Mama?"

Leo's voice sounds distant, filtered through thick cotton. A small tug on my pant leg breaks the paralysis. He’s looking up, confused by my statue-stillness.

"Get your coat," my voice rips out, hoarse and unrecognizable.

I grab his yellow rain jacket from the low hook. Fingers clumsy, numb blocks of ice, shaking so badly the sleeve opening seems to vanish. I shove his small arm in—too rough, too desperate.

"I don't wanna!" he begins his usual toddler protest, pulling away. "Play blocks!"

"Now, Leo!" The snap of my voice startles us both.

He freezes, eyes going wide with fright. His lower lip—his lip, that perfect Rinaldi curve—starts to tremble. Guilt pierces through the terror, sharp and hot. I never raise my voice at him. Dropping to my knees, I pull him against my chest, burying my face in his neck for a brief second. He smells of baby shampoo and innocence.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, mama didn't mean it," I whisper, trembling against him. "We just... we have to go home. Fast. It’s a game. The fast game."

"Ms. Miller? Grace? Is everything all right?"

Mrs. Gable is peering over her reading glasses, brow furrowed. The blue ink smear from my dropped stamp is still dark on her pristine desk.

"Yes, yes, fine," I lie, the words tumbling out too quickly. "I... I think he has a fever. He feels warm. I need to get him to bed."

Without waiting for a reply, I shove Leo into his stroller. No time for the blanket. I just snap the buckle and pull the rain hood up. It hides his face. Hides his features. Hides the truth.

My gaze refuses to drift back to the window. If the car is still there, if a door opens, if he steps out into the rain... I won't be able to move. And if it's gone... that means nothing. Predators disappear before they strike.

"I'm sorry, I have to go." My purse is already over my shoulder, library cards abandoned on the desk.

"But, dear, you forgot your umbrella—"

The jingle of the door bell cuts her off as I burst out onto the cold, wet street.

The air hits like a slap—freezing, carrying the scent of wet pine and exhaust.

Two blocks. Just two hundred steps to my apartment above the "Sweet Cedar" bakery. On any other day, a five-minute stroll. Today, a marathon across a minefield.

A sharp left turn takes us away from the intersection. Chin tucked into my scarf, eyes down. Rule number one of the hunted: never show you're running. Rule number two: never look back. If they see your face, it’s over.

But every muscle in my body is coiled, screaming danger, waiting for a hand to grab my shoulder, for a voice to call out a name that died three years ago.

The rain turns to an icy drizzle, seeping instantly into my collar, sliding down my spine like cold fingers. Leo fusses in the stroller, kicking his legs. "Cold, mama. Wet."

"We're almost home, baby. Almost home. Shh."

Rubber boots slap against the wet sidewalk. Slap-slap-slap. The sound echoes, deafening in the midday quiet. Why is the town so quiet? Where is everyone?

Ahead, Mr. Henderson is sweeping water away from the entrance of his hardware store. He looks up and waves, a slow, friendly gesture.

A jerk of the head is all I can manage. My smile must look like a grimace, a rictus of terror.

Does he see me? Does he see someone behind me? Does he know who I really am?

The alley between the hardware store and the flower shop gapes like a mouth. A dark, wet slit between brick buildings. Shadows pool there, deep and impenetrable. A perfect place for an ambush. A perfect place to pull a woman and a child into the dark.

Knuckles white on the stroller handle, I speed up. Almost jogging now. The wheels rattle violently over the uneven sidewalk.

Lungs burn. The air tastes metallic.

There it is. My street. Half a block to go. The sign for the bakery sways in the wind. The smell of yeast reaches me.

Then, the sound.

An engine roars behind.

Close. Too close.

It’s not the low, velvet purr of a sedan. It’s a rattle, a cough, a loud mechanical growl. But terror doesn't distinguish. Blood freezes in my veins.

They found me. They’re right behind me.

My feet stop. Body turns to stone. Instinct screams to shove the stroller into the gap between two parked cars, to throw myself over it.

A beat-up red Ford truck rattles past, splashing a wave of muddy water onto the sidewalk.

Farmer Jenkins.

He waves through the windshield, oblivious to the heart attack he almost caused.

Air leaves my lungs in a shuddering whoosh. Knees buckle, nearly sending me to the sidewalk.

Paranoia. I am losing my mind.

It was just a rich tourist back at the intersection. He stopped to check his GPS or answer a text. That's all. He's gone. He’s halfway to the ski resort by now. Safety is an illusion, but right now, it feels real enough to keep moving.

The heavy oak door next to the bakery window looms ahead. The small brass plaque reads "Apartments. Side Entrance." My home. My fortress.

Hand jams into my coat pocket, fumbling. Keys jingle, mocking the clumsiness of my numb fingers. They’re tangled in my headphones wire.

Come on. Come on. Faster.

A phantom gaze burns into my back. Hot, heavy, physical. Like a branding iron pressed to the spine.

No one is there. Don't look.

Keys rip free, scratching my hand. The silver one separates. Shaking hands try to find the keyhole. Metal scratches against metal. Missed.

Calm down. Grace, calm down.

Once. Twice. On the third try, the key slides in.

Turn. Click.

Shouldering the door open, I practically fall inside, yanking the stroller in after me. Wheels scrape against the frame. The narrow hallway smells of cinnamon and old wood.

The door slams shut.

Back pressed against the wood, legs turn to water.

Lock.

The deadbolt twists. A heavy, final clack.

Chain.

The brass chain slides into its groove. A high, thin jingle.

I stare at it. That thin strip of metal. It’s the difference between the world and us. Between the past and the present.

Pushing off the door, motion returns. Not done yet.

"Mama?" Leo asks, voice small.

"One second, baby," I breathe.

Leaving him in the hallway, I sprint to the kitchen. The apartment is small, a straight shot. Boots skid on the linoleum.

The back door. The one leading to the fire escape and the alley behind the bakery.

My hand grabs the handle. Yank. It doesn't budge. Locked.

Eyes check the heavy deadbolt. It's thrown. Vertical. Solid. Only I have a key. Only I and the landlord, Mr. Henderson, even know this door exists. It opens into a dead-end alley filled with dumpsters and delivery crates. Invisible.

Front door locked and chained. Back door locked.

Sealed in. A fortress.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I listen. For footsteps on the stairs. For the sound of a car engine outside.

Silence. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rain against the window.

"Mama, home," Leo announces from the hallway, breaking the spell.

"Yeah, baby," I whisper, adrenaline beginning to recede, leaving dizziness in its wake. "We're home."

Walking slowly back to him, hands still tremble while unbuckling the straps. I lift him out, holding him a little tighter than necessary. He squirms, wanting down.

A smile is forced onto my face. It feels brittle, like cracked plaster. "Who wants to play with blocks?"

"Me!"

He wriggles free and runs into our small living room, heading straight for his colorful rug. A second later, the familiar, comforting clatter of wooden blocks spilling from their box fills the air.

Knock-knock-knock.

A gasp catches in my throat. I spin around, facing the door, heart restarting its frantic hammering.

But it's not the door.

Leo is banging two red square blocks together. Click-clack. Knock-knock.

A laugh escapes me. Hysterical, choked, bordering on a sob. Hand presses over my mouth to stifle it.

Insane. A paranoid wreck.

Three years of running have turned me into a hunted animal, jumping at shadows, terrified of a toddler's toys.

It wasn't him.

Logic returns, slow and steady. Dante Rinaldi is a king. He doesn't prowl small towns in the rain. If he had found me, he wouldn't have parked three cars on Main Street like a parade. He would have sent a ghost. A quiet man in a gray suit sitting in my armchair when I walked in.

He isn't here.

Coincidence. Just cars. Just rain.

The exhale is real this time. Tension releases from my shoulders, muscle by muscle. The wet jacket comes off, hung on the hook next to the door.

Home. Safe. Locked.

In the living room, Leo builds a tower, tongue sticking out in concentration. His lips.

My heart aches with a fierce, protective love. I will do anything to protect him. I have done everything.

But right now... right now, the danger is only in my head.

Adrenaline drains away, replaced by a sticky, cottony exhaustion. Knees shake—not from fear anymore, but from the crash. Sugar. I need sugar.

The kitchen is tiny, barely a kitchenette, but it's ours. It’s warm.

"Mama's getting juice," I call out, voice steadying. "Do you want some?"

"Juice!" he cheers, not looking up.

A smile forms—a real one. The fridge opens, cool air hitting my flushed face. Apple juice carton in hand, pulse slowing to normal. A glass from the shelf.

Safe.

Just Grace Miller. Home.