I didn’t mean to look for him.

I told myself I wasn’t going to check if Jace was still in the woods after practice. I told myself I’d go home, keep my head down, pretend I didn’t care.

But I’m standing here now, behind the library steps, where no one bothers to look, and I see him.

Jace Morgan.

Alone.

His hoodie clings to him from the rain. His hands are dirty. He looks over his shoulder like he’s hearing something I can’t.

And then I see it. The thing I wish I hadn’t.

Someone watching him.

Not close. Far enough to stay hidden.

But real.

And not moving.

My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone.

Me: Are you in the woods?

I watch the screen, the gray bubbles. The seconds stretch.

Jace: Yeah. How did you know?

I don’t want to say the truth, not in a text.

I type slowly.

Me: Because I saw someone watching you.

I don’t hit send right away. I hesitate. Then press it.

By the time he reads it, I’m already walking toward the school parking lot, even though my heart is screaming at me to run.

“Lena.”

I hear my name before I even reach the sidewalk.

Jace is behind me. Wet, breathless.

“Where did you go?” he asks, stepping closer.

“You didn’t see him?” I say, voice lower than I meant it.

“See who?”

“There was someone. Standing in the trees. You didn’t feel it?”

Jace rubs the back of his neck. “I heard something. But it could’ve been a branch.”

“No,” I say quickly. “It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t... nothing.”

His eyes search mine. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t imagine things like that,” I whisper. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. He just nods and walks with me across the lot, both of us pretending this is normal. That everything is fine.

But every step feels too loud. Every shadow feels too close.

I sit at the kitchen table that night, pushing pasta around my plate. Aunt Moira is humming to herself, reading the paper, pretending she isn’t worried. That’s her thing—quiet concern, never spoken out loud.

“You okay, kiddo?” she finally asks, glancing up from the crossword.

“Fine,” I say.

“You always say that.”

I force a smile. “That’s because it’s always true.”

She snorts. “You get that from your mom.”

I freeze.

She realizes it too late.

“Sorry,” she says, voice tight.

“It’s okay,” I lie.

We don’t talk about my mom. Not really. And definitely not about the night everything fell apart.

After dinner, I sit on my bed, legs crossed, sketchbook open in my lap. I try to draw something peaceful. I end up sketching eyes. Just... eyes. Sharp. Cold. Watching.

I close the book and stare at the ceiling.

I don’t know who’s behind the notes.

Or the slashed tire.

Or the shape I saw in the woods.

But I know it’s connected.

And the part that scares me most?

I think it has something to do with me.

At school the next day, I walk into the girls' bathroom and find my name written on the mirror.

"LENA WALKER – BACK OFF"

It’s written in red. Lipstick, maybe. Or marker.

I stare at it, heart pounding.

It’s not just about Jace now. This feels bigger. Deeper.

Someone wants me gone.

I don’t realize I’m not alone until I hear a stall door creak.

Then footsteps.

I turn fast.

There’s a girl standing there, hair pulled back tight, arms crossed.

I’ve seen her before. Blonde. Cheerleader. Always next to Audrey.

“Did you do this?” I ask.

She shrugs. “You’re not wanted here.”

“Why?”

“Because you bring things with you,” she says. “Dark things. You think people don’t notice, but they do.”

“Who told you that?”

She smiles. “You don’t need a name. Just a map out of town.”

She walks past me like we didn’t just have that conversation.

Like I didn’t just hear her threaten me without saying a single clear word.

I find Jace after last period, sitting on the bleachers outside the gym, flipping a hockey puck between his fingers like it’s a stress ball.

“I saw your name on a mirror,” he says without looking at me.

“So you heard.”

“Word travels fast here.”

“I’m starting to notice.”

He looks up. “What do you want to do about it?”

“Disappear,” I mutter. “Is that an option?”

“Not for me.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Even if you run, I’ll still want answers.”

I sit beside him, leaving a few inches between us. “What if I don’t have them?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then says, “I think you do. You’re just scared to speak them out loud.”

He’s right. I am.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll say them.

Instead, I whisper, “When I was eleven, someone broke into our house.”

His face turns toward mine slowly.

“I was home. Alone. My mom was supposed to be back in ten minutes, but she got stuck at work. I heard glass break downstairs. I hid in the closet. I didn’t scream. I didn’t breathe.”

“Did they hurt you?” he asks softly.

“No,” I say. “But they left something behind. A piece of paper. With my name on it.”

He doesn’t speak.

I look at him. “The writing... it looked just like the notes you’ve been getting.”

Jace grips the puck harder. “That was years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re only just telling me now?”

“Because it stopped. After my mom died, everything just… stopped. Until I came here.”

Jace stares at the field in front of us, like the answer might be written in the dirt.

“We need to find out who’s doing this,” he says.

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“We can’t just wait around for the next note.”

I nod, but my hands are cold. “What if finding out means losing everything?”

He doesn’t answer.

But I already know.

It might.

That night, I get another message.

Not a note.

A photo.

Sent from an unknown number.

It’s a picture of me and Jace.

Taken from behind a tree.

We’re sitting on the bleachers, exactly how we were today.

There’s no caption.

There doesn’t need to be.

My fingers tremble as I lock the phone and shove it under my pillow.

I don’t sleep.

And when I do, I dream of closets and broken glass and eyes I can’t see.