The knock at the doores just after breakfast. Julie freezes mid-sip of her coffee, and I see the sh of panic in her eyes before she masks it. I’m so sad that she’s still jumpy, but I understand how much of a paranoid kid she was. Craig just ys into her worst fear of the unknown.


    “I’ll get it,” I say, already moving toward the door.


    I open it and am confused when I see a in cardboard box sitting on the porch with no returnbel. Julie’s name is scribbled in Sharpie across the top. As soon as I see it, every muscle in my body tenses. Julie steps closer, squeezing in beside me so she can look.


    “Don’t touch it,” I warn.


    “What is it?”


    “I don’t know yet,” I say, crouching to tear the tape and peel the ps back.


    The disgusting smell hits me first.


    Inside is a bouquet of wilted, ckened roses, stems slimy with decay. Tucked between them is a card, smeared with something like dirt.


    “What th—” Julie mps a hand over her mouth.


    I slide the card out with two fingers, and there are just three words written in sloppy handwriting.


    I’m always watching.


    The meaning is clear.


    My vision goes red. “Motherfucker.”


    I pull my phone from my pocket and take a picture of it, then text it to Brody.


    Nick


    Did you see anything?


    Brody


    No. No cars stopped by. Just a bunch of kids in costumes, going door-to-door.


    Nick


    How’s that possible?


    Brody


    Not sure. Contact the securitypany to review the footage from sunrise to the present.


    Julie sinks into the couch as I close the door, leaving the flowers where they are. Her knuckles are white around her coffee mug. “He knows I’m home.”


    “I’m calling the police,” I tell her.


    She shakes her head. “What if this never ends? What if Craig stays lurking in the shadows?”


    I drop to my knees in front of her and take her face in my hands so she has no choice but to look at me. “This will notst forever. I promise. Craig’s showing signs of desperation, and desperation means he’ll make mistakes. It’s a cycle, and we’re nearing its end. I’ve seen this too much over the years with our clients.”


    Her eyes glisten, but she shudders. “His note sounds like a threat.”


    “Then let me promise you something,” I say. I keep my voice steady even though my blood is boiling. “He’ll never touch you again. Not while I’m breathing.”


    An hourter, the box of dead roses is gone, sealed in an evidence bag. Another statement is written, everything is photographed, and more time is wasted. Festivalgoers stare at the house as the cops stand out in front. Julie pretends to be fine, but I’ve watched her eyes unfocus on the same unread page of the Cozy News for thest twenty minutes.


    When her phone rings again, she flinches hard enough that she almost spills her fresh cup of coffee. Julie turns her phone around to show me it’s a blocked number.


    She answers and mutes the call. I hear someone breathing.


    Julie’s face goes pale, but she clenches her jaw, not hanging up until they do.


    Not a word is said. Creep.


    After a few minutes, she ends the call, but it rings again. This time, I answer.


    “Hey, Craig,” I say in a low tone. “I bet it pisses you off that I answered instead of Jules. But see, now you get to hear me talk about how you fucked up by letting her go. Honestly, I should thank you, buddy. Thank you for being aplete and utter dumbass and not realizing what you had. Because now she’s mine and?—”


    The call ends.


    Julie chuckles—a sound I love to hear.


    “Guess I figured out what triggers him. It happens again, hand me the phone,” I say.


    She smiles. “You’ll just irritate him.”


    “That’s the point. Maybe he’ll stop calling when he has to listen to me brag about us every damn time.”


    For a second, the silence in the condo is a victory. Then my phone rings.


    It’s the securitypany.


    “We’ve downloaded and forwarded the video to the police department and to you. It appears that a man asked a child to carry the box and knock on the door. We can’t see anything other than a blur of a body.”


    “That sucks,” I breathe out. “Thank you.”


    “Sorry, I couldn’t have been more helpful,” he says, and the call ends.


    I open my email and forward it to Brody.


    Julie’s phone vibrates again, and another knock on the door follows it.


    “Damn,” I whisper.


    Julie checks the app and moves through the living room.


    “It’s Mrs. Mooney and several other people,” she whispers, smoothing her hair down before opening the door.


    “Jules! We came to hang out with you today,” Mrs. Mooney announces. She’s the secretary of the book club. “We just got news that bastard’s been spotted in Silver Sky. Martha’s cousin saw him at a gas station, looking like hell.”


    Silver Sky is thirty minutes away.


    “When?” I demand.


    “Early this morning. The police went, but he was already gone.”


    The five women set up camp in Julie’s living room in a protective circle that’s full of maternal energy. They’ve brought doughnuts and gossip and glittery cans of pepper spray, just in case.


    “Now,” Mrs. Patrick says, settling on the couch like a general preparing for battle, “we’re here to take your mind off that piece of trash. I brought my favorite card game to help pass the time.”


    “Which is?” Julie asks, her brow lifted.


    “Cards Against Humanity.” Mrs. Patrick pulls the extra-long ck box from inside her oversized purse with a wicked grin. “The Nasty bundle.”


    “Mrs. P!” Julie gasps. “The sun is still up!”


    “So? We’re not prudes. Honey, I’ve been married for forty years. I know things that would make him blush.” She points to me.


    For the next two hours, we y the most inappropriate card game I’ve ever witnessed with a group of women over sixty. Julieughs so hard that she’s crying. It’s the good kind of tears too. Mrs. Henderson ys abination so dirty that even I blush.


    “I can’t believe you!” Julie wheezes.


    “Believe it, honey. How do you think Inded my third husband?” Mrs. Mooney smirks.


    “Third?” I ask.


    “Oh, yeah, the first two just couldn’t keep up with this,” she admits.


    This sends Julie into another fit of giggles. And for a moment, it’s like the weight of the morning lifts off her. She’s not looking over her shoulder, not checking her phone, not thinking about Craig. She’s just alive and living her best life with a group of women who’ve collectively be a grandma army for her.


    “Okay, okay,” Julie says, wiping her eyes. “I need to excuse myself, or I’m going to pee my pants.”


    “TMI, dear,” Mrs. Patrick says, then ys another horrifyingly inappropriate card that makes everyone scream withughter.


    My phone buzzes. I don’t know the number, but I answer it because it might be important.


    “Nick Banks?” a woman’s voice says, sounding professional.


    “Yes?”


    “This is Ba Burndy from the New York Times. We’re doing a piece on revenge porn and famous victims. Your girlfriend’s case?—”


    I hang up.


    “Who was that?” Julie asks, returning with bottles of water for everyone.


    “Reporter with the New York Times.”


    The mood shifts, but Mrs. Henderson takes control of the situation.


    “The New York Times can kiss my saggy ass,” she states. “Now, whose turn is it?”


    Julieughs again, but it’s not as easy as it was before. “Yours, I think.”


    We y for another hour. The women share scandalous stories about their youth, each trying to top the other. Julie holds her stomach fromughing when Mrs. Hendersonunches into a story about skinny-dipping with her boyfriend in 1962.


    “The sheriff caught us, and there I was, naked as a jaybird, trying to exin that we were just cooling off.”


    “Seriously?” Julie asks.


    “Oh, yeah. I told him Bobby Henderson had the finest ass in three counties and I was doing my patriotic duty by appreciating it,” she says and gives a salute.


    “You did not!” Julie gasps.


    “I did! The sheriffughed so hard that he let us go with a warning, but somehow, the entire town knew before we got back into city limits.”


    “Wait,” Julie says. “Bobby Henderson? As in Mr. Henderson? As in your third husband?”


    “He was my first love. As they say, the third time’s a charm.” Mrs. Henderson winks. “Some asses are worth keeping forever, dear.”


    Julie tips sideways against me, giggling so hard that she can’t breathe. I memorize the sound—theugh I’d burn down the world to protect.


    The afternoon passes with moments of genuine joy, punctuated by reminders of why they’re here in the first ce.


    When someone knocks on the door, everyone tenses until we confirm it’s another false pizza delivery, which has been happening for the past hour. But then Mrs. Mooney starts a story about the time she identally ordered thirty pizzas instead of three, and the tension in the room eases again.


    That evening, after the women leave with promises to check in the next day, Julie and I have an early dinner, then move to the balcony. She’s still smiling from the day’s unexpected turn.


    “I didn’t know the Fairy Godmothers had it in them,” she says.


    “I might be a little traumatized,” I tell her yfully.


    “Oh, you loved it.” She pokes my ribs. “I saw you trying not tough at Mrs. Patrick’s story about the church bell incident.”


    “True. They’re hrious, and they have a good sense of humor.”


    She leans against me. “I think they enjoyed hanging out with us. I appreciate that they care.”


    “You’re loved, sweetheart,” I say. “Everyone wants the very best for you.”


    “You know, sometimes, I forget that no matter what’s going wrong in life, it’s still possible to have fun.”


    “You’re damn right about that.”


    The sunset paints the mountains orange and gold as the carnival rides light up and glow. In the distance, I can see Hollow Manor tucked up on the hill overlooking Cozy Creek. Even though a lot in my life is unsettled and it’s not perfect, that doesn’t take away from how peaceful it is with Julie by my side.


    “Oh, by the way, Autumn is going to force us to carve a billion pumpkins the day before Halloween,” she says. “I’m going to out-carve you.”


    “Oh, really?”


    “Really. I’ve been watching YouTube videos for the past ten years. I’m basically a professional now.”


    “I’ll have you know that I was pumpkin carving champion three years running in my hometown,” I exin.


    Her mouth falls open, and she turns her body toward me. I notice how her face glows at golden hour.


    “You’re kidding.”


    “Nope. And it was extremelypetitive because there was a lot of money involved.”


    Sheughs—a realugh. “You’re making it up.”


    “Scout’s honor. I have a trophy somewhere.” I pull out my phone, scrolling through old photos until I find the one I’m looking for. “Boom. Carving champion. Need me to zoom in so you can see it?”


    “Pfft.” She nces at the photo of teenage me holding a genuinely impressive pumpkin carving trophy. “Oh my goodness, you weren’t kidding.”


    “I wasn’t.”


    “Aw, look at that baby face. You were so adorable. I’d have had a crush on you as a kid.”


    “I was fifteen and very serious about my pumpkin art. So, I’m going to kick your ass at carving pumpkins.”


    She’sughing again, and I save this moment in my memory. “I forgot you werepetitive.”


    “Babe, you have no idea. Not to mention, I always win, and I always get what I want.”


    “Noted.”


    Julie’s wearing one of my hoodies; her hair is messy from the wind, and she’s giggling about pumpkins while the world tries to break her.


    “You’re so pretty,” I whisper.


    She grins, and her phone buzzes with a security alert. We check it together, and it’s the back-door sensor. There’s nothing on the camera. I lean over the railing to nce at the back door.


    “Nothing there,” I tell her.


    “Must’ve been the wind,” she agrees.


    “Or a ghost,” I say.


    “I can handle a ghost all day, every day,” she tells me with a snicker. “I’d prefer it over Craig.”


    Once the sun sets, we return inside and shut the balcony doors.


    As we’re getting ready for bed, Julie puts on some ’90s pop and starts dancing around her bedroom.


    “Dance with me,” she says.


    “To the Backstreet Boys?”


    “Yes. I want it this way.”


    So, I give her what she wants.


    She spins under my arm, and I dip her dramatically. We’re ridiculous, and it’s perfect.


    After several songs, we copse onto the bed, both smiling.


    “I needed that,” she whispers, kissing me.


    “I know you did,” I tell her.


    Craig can send dead flowers. He can lurk in the shadows. He can even try to break her. But he’s already failed because Julie Lovnd doesn’t break.


    She keeps living.