CHAPTER 6

Then I’m scratching at my scalp—a nervous, rhythmic twitch at the edge of my hairline.

It’s not until Mom gently places her hand over mine and gives me the look—the one that’s halfway between a warning and a hug—that I snap out of it.

Right. Tics are back.

OCD flares when the stress hits a certain pitch.

I take a slow breath and reach for the silver dollar in my purse—the one I’ve kept since law school. Worn smooth along the edges. Just the right weight.

I start rolling it across my knuckles.

One, two, three, four, back again.

It always works. My mind slows, if only slightly, as my fingers stay busy.

I tune back into the room just in time to hear Donna ask, “Do you think he can feel with the shadows? Like... pressure? Texture?”

My soul briefly leaves my body, files a restraining order, and returns wearing noise-canceling headphones.

The room buzzes with agreement, and someone uses the phrase “strategic penetration” without even blushing.

I stare at my water glass like it might open a portal and suck me out of this reality.

Here’s the thing: it’s not that I hate sex. It’s not even that I’ve sworn it off. I just... don’t think about it. Not really.

I had sex a few times. In college. It was brief. Clumsy. Loud in the wrong ways. The kind of experience that makes you wish you’d just stayed home with a grilled cheese and an episode ofForensic Files.

My therapist says I should “explore that more”—that maybe I haven’t had a positive sexual experience, so my brain defaulted to avoid. But honestly? I’m fine. I have my wine and a crime docuseries queue that’s six seasons deep. I have a vibrator. I sleep great.

And growing up in a house where the word sex was avoided like a swear word didn’t exactly create a safe space to explore it. Understandably, my mom wasn’t rushing into sex talks—not when she spent the first decade of my life dragging us across the state to stay out of reach of the man who raped her.

So now, sitting in this pastel living room full of book club moms discussing how a dark prince uses sentient shadows in intimate places, I do what any self-respecting, emotionally repressed daughter would do:

I let my eyes glaze over and focus on the silver dollar in my palm.

Spin. Catch. Roll. Breathe.

One, two, three, four.

And again.

By the time we’re heading back to Mom’s place, I do feel a little less heavy. Not light—but less. Like I’ve been slowly sinking, and someone paused the descent.

That lasts about five minutes until my phone buzzes.

A text from Benjamin blows everything out of the water:No patrols available tonight. She’ll be on her own. Someone will run a check in the morning.

The silver dollar stills in my hand. My stomach turns cold.

She may be dead by morning.

I sit in the quiet of my mom’s SUV as she cuts off the engine, the overhead light turning on when she opens her door.

“She’s alone,” I mutter. “He’s going to get her tonight, and she’ll be another cold case everyone shrugs about on the six o’clock news while they microwave frozen lasagna and forget her name.”

My mom makes a soft hummus she unlocks her door, and we step inside her dark home. She flicks on the kitchen light, and the familiar warmth settles over everything.

This has always been home. Even though we moved constantly when I was little—always running, always hiding—once that chapter ended... Once her rapist was gone, we found this place. And we never left.

The peace inside these walls has always felt earned.

Hard-won.

Safe.

But Mariela doesn’t get to feel that way and she may never again.

Not while Travis Gannon is still breathing the same air as her.

I drop my bag on the counter and stare out the kitchen window, the streetlamp casting a soft orange halo over the lawn.

You do whatever you have to, my mom had said.

To make it stop.

The words echo now, curling around my thoughts like vines. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... true.

I don’t realize how quiet I’ve gotten until I look over and see my mom watching me. She’s got one hand wrapped around a tea mug, the other resting loosely against her hip.

Eventually, she starts nodding. Like she’s hearing the exact same train of thought clanging through my head.

“Keep going down that line of thinking,” she says, calm as anything. “And you’ll be on the right track.”

I blink at her. Then exhale.

“How do you always do that? Know what I’m thinking?”

She blows on her warm tea. “Moms just know their babies.”

She’s right.

I can’t sit around here debating shadow sex and drinking lemon water like it’s a spa day while Mariela is fearing for her life.

If the police won’t watch Mariela’s building... then by all that’s holy and hot pink, I will.

The more I think about it, the more certain I am.

I’ll sit outside and watch the building. I’ll keep my camera rolling and the emergency line on standby. If I catch him even lurking near her apartment, I’ll call it in. He’s under a restraining order. It’ll be enough to bring him in.

I straighten my shoulders a little.

You do whatever you have to.

And if that means doing a stakeout to catch a stalker-rapist with his hand in the cookie jar?

Then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

My mom beams, that proud-little-mama look warming her whole face. She cups my cheeks like I’ve just told her I got into Harvard (again), kisses one of them, and says, “I’ll make you some snacks, dear.”

Because naturally, if you’re going to stake out a predator, you shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.

I head down the hall to change into my official crime-watching uniform—hot-pink Pilates tights, a matching sports bra, and my favorite cropped zip-up.

Comfort is key when you’re preparing for long stretches of moral crisis and potential felony charges.

By the time I get back to the kitchen, my mom’s got half the pantry laid out on the counter.

“Mom,” I say, digging through the tote bag, “I don’t need all this.”

“That’s a protein bar for energy, that one’s a granola bar because they taste better, and the chocolate is for morale,” she says without turning around, still slicing fruit like we’re going on a picnic.

I fish out a sandwich bag of grapes, a single-serving pack of hummus, three kinds of crackers, and... the eight-inch chef’s knife.

I hold it up like it’s radioactive. “What in the name of our goddess, Elle Woods, is this for?”

She doesn’t even blink. “You can never be too careful, dear.”

“Right,” I mutter, sliding the knife back in the bag and wondering when my life started to resemble a deleted scene fromLegally BlondemeetsDexter.

Outside, the streetlights flicker on, casting warm pools of light across the pavement. It’s that dusky hour where everything feels slow and suspended—like the night’s holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

I zip up my jacket, toss the tote over my shoulder, and grab my car keys from the hook by the door.

“You’ll text me when you’re set up?” my mom asks, walking me out.

“Of course,” I say, already bracing for the surveillance-grade check-ins I know are coming.

She hugs me tight, then smooths the side of my hair like she’s trying to imprint calm into me.

“Be safe,” she whispers.

I nod.

Of course, how hard could this be?

Boys do it.

How hard could this be?

Boys do it.

That thought aged like milk.