The picture hits me harder than any puck ever has.

Lena shows it to me before first period. No words, just her phone held out between us. A photo of us—on the bleachers yesterday. Taken from behind the trees. Distant. Blurry. But unmistakable.

“Who sent it?” I ask.

“No name,” she says. “Just a number that doesn’t reply.”

I stare at it, my jaw tight. “They’re not just watching now. They want us to know.”

She nods, slipping her phone back into her bag. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

The bell rings, but we don’t move. I feel like moving would break something fragile between us.

“I can’t keep pretending this is normal,” I say.

Lena’s eyes search mine. “It never was.”

In English class, I barely hear a word Mr. Klein says. Something about metaphor, irony—none of it sticks. My mind’s somewhere else. On Lena. On that photo. On the shadow behind the trees.

And on what I can’t shake:

Whoever this is… they know exactly where we are. Where we sit. What we say.

And maybe, what we’re about to do.

After school, I ask Coach if I can miss practice. He raises an eyebrow like I’ve lost my mind.

“You’ve never missed practice, Morgan.”

“I need one day.”

“You hurt?”

“No.”

“Problem at home?”

“No.”

Coach eyes me for a long second, then nods once. “One day. But if I see it affect your game, we’re talking. Understood?”

“Understood.”

I leave the rink without the usual post-practice buzz. My teammates don’t ask why. They probably think it’s girl trouble. They’re not entirely wrong.

But it’s more than that.

It feels like a noose tightening.

And Lena’s in the center of it.

We meet behind the library again. It’s the only place neither of us gets stared at. We sit under the metal stairs, backs against the brick wall, knees pulled up.

Lena’s quiet. Too quiet.

“You’re thinking about leaving,” I say.

She flinches. “How’d you know?”

“You looked like that the first day I saw you. Like you were already halfway gone.”

She stares down at her hands. “I used to think running fixed things.”

“And now?”

“Now I think the things I’m running from already know how to follow.”

I look at her, and for a second, I forget we’re being watched. Forget the threats. The fear. The notes. I just see her—Lena Walker. Tired. Brave. Messed up. Like me.

“Then don’t run,” I say. “Not alone.”

She lets out a soft breath. “You’re making this harder.”

“Good.”

Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“I am,” I admit. “But not of them.”

She leans her head back against the wall. “What are you scared of then?”

“Losing this. Whatever this is.”

She doesn’t reply right away.

Then she says, “Someone came to my old school. Asking about me.”

I sit up straighter. “When?”

“Months before I left. They didn’t give a name. But they asked questions. Personal ones.”

“Like what?”

“Where I lived. If I had any family. If I ever talked about what happened the night my mom died.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach.

“Why didn’t you report it?”

She looks away. “To who? The cops said they’d call if there was something new. No one ever did.”

“And this person—did they leave anything behind?”

“No,” she says softly. “But the questions stayed.”

That night, I wait until Dad’s asleep before pulling out the file from the bottom drawer of his study.

It’s mostly work stuff. Tax records. Contracts. But buried deep in the stack is an envelope with my name on it.

I open it carefully.

Inside is a news clipping.

“Woman Killed in Home Invasion – Suspect Never Found.”

A picture of Lena’s mom.

I feel like someone just knocked the wind out of me.

Why does my dad have this?

I keep reading.

No signs of forced entry. Victim was a nurse at Silver Hollow General. Survived by daughter, now in custody of maternal aunt.

I flip the page over. There’s handwriting on the back.

“She knew something.”

That’s all it says.

I fold the paper slowly, hands shaking.

I need answers.

And I know where to start.

The next day, I skip school.

I text Caleb to cover for me—tell Coach I’m sick. He doesn’t question it, just sends back a thumbs-up emoji.

I drive to the hospital. It’s not far. My mom used to volunteer here before she got sick.

I find an old receptionist named Helen who looks like she’s been working since the place opened.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m trying to ask about someone who used to work here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “We don’t give out employee info.”

“I know. But… her name was Angela Walker. She passed away a few years ago. She was my girlfriend’s mom.”

Helen’s eyes soften. “I remember Angela. Sweet woman. Always stayed late. Loved the night shift.”

“Did anything… weird ever happen before she died?”

Helen glances around, lowers her voice. “She got quiet near the end. Real nervous. Said someone was following her car after work. Thought she was being watched. I told her to call the police. Don’t think she ever did.”

“Did she say who it was?”

“No,” Helen says. “But she did mention a name once. A last name. Morgan.”

My breath stops.

“You’re sure?” I ask.

Helen nods. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” I lie. “Thanks for your help.”

As I walk out of the hospital, the puzzle pieces start clicking together.

And I don’t like the picture they’re making.

That night, I’m sitting in my truck outside Lena’s house, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache.

I haven’t told her what I found.

Not yet.

She climbs into the passenger seat without a word. Her hair’s damp from a shower. She smells like soap and nerves.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. “No new notes. Just silence.”

“Sometimes that’s worse.”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

We sit there, not moving. Letting the quiet settle between us.

“I found something,” I say finally. “About your mom.”

She looks at me, alert now. “What?”

“I went to the hospital. Talked to someone who used to work with her.”

“What did they say?”

I hesitate.

“Jace?”

“They said she was scared. That someone was following her. Watching.”

Lena’s breath catches.

“She mentioned a name before she died,” I say. “And it wasn’t yours.”

“Who?”

I look straight at her.

“She said Morgan.”

Her lips part like she wants to speak, but no sound comes out.

“My dad has a clipping about your mom’s death. Hidden in his study. With a note.”

Lena’s voice is barely there. “What kind of note?”

I hesitate again. Then say it.

“She knew something.”

Lena stares at the dashboard, her eyes wide and distant.

“Do you think your dad—?” she begins.

“I don’t know,” I cut in. “But I’m going to find out.”

She grabs my wrist suddenly. “Jace, if your family’s tied to mine, you might not like what you learn.”

I meet her eyes.

“Too late.”

And in the silence that follows, my phone buzzes.

A single message.

From an unknown number.

“Stop digging. Or she’s next.”