She can always send him a Facebook friend request and see if he accepts it.
But you don’t want to be friends with him, she reminds herself. That makes no sense after what he did to you, sending that package . . .
Maybe it was just his way of telling her he still thinks about her after all these years. Maybe he meant it as a misguided grand romantic gesture.
Too bad it came off as merely creepy, and . . . all right, frightening.
Regardless of his motives, she has two options now: confront him, or ignore him. And ignoring just isn’t her style—-especially when she’s angry. Which she is, more so by the moment.
How dare he barge into her life again?
She impulsively sends him a friend request, then sits staring at the screen under the irrational assumption that he’ll accept instantly so that she can give him a piece of her mind.
When that doesn’t happen—-not instantly, and not in the space of another ten, fifteen, and then twenty minutes—-she regrets having sent it. Now the ball is in his court, leaving her feeling even more helpless than she would if she’d ignored him.
She abruptly closes out of the Facebook screen, pushes back her chair, and starts to get up before thinking of Jake. He seemed to accept her Cyber Monday shopping story. But what if he decides to snoop through her computer to see whether she bought anything for him?
He’s not a ten-year--old kid hoping for a new Xbox, she reminds herself. Yet she reaches again for the laptop and clears the browsing and search histories, just in case.
Satisfied she’s covered her tracks, she turns off the computer and flicks off the desk lamp as a sudden gust of wind rattles the panes and stirs the sheer lace curtains that cover the windows. They’re closed, of course. And poorly insulated. Still . . .
She’s rarely spooked in this big old house. But there have been times, over the past few months, when she could have sworn she saw someone out there in the night, looking in, and once she had the eerie feeling that she was being watched in her second--floor bedroom.
When she mentioned that to Jake, he asked, “So which do you think it is? A ghost or a Peeping Tom?” His tone made it clear that he thought they were equally unlikely options, and she dropped the subject.
But now, standing alone in the dark, unsettled by the moving curtains, she feels a familiar twinge of apprehension.
Is it any wonder? It’s been a hell of a day. Time to put it behind her at last.
As she starts to turn toward the doorway, a human shadow materializes outside the window. She sees it in the corner of her eye, amid the silhouettes of shrubs and trees in the yard, and a gasp catches in her throat.
Spinning to face the glass, she realizes that it’s only the maple sapling she and Jake planted one spring to replace a mighty oak felled by a fierce winter storm. Braden took a photo of them that day, arm in arm, wearing jeans and holding shovels. It sits framed on her desk.
“A hundred years from now, our great grandchildren will tie a swing to its branches and push our great--great grandchildren in it,” she told Jake as he dragged the hose over to soak the soil at its base.
“I like that you’re assuming the house will still be in the family and that the kids will want to stay in Mundy’s Landing.”
“Why wouldn’t they? We did. And this house is our happily--ever--after.”
It was one of those rare days when she appreciated it all: the house, and the life she and Jake had built there together. The day before and the day after were undoubtedly fraught with the usual tensions, but on that April day, in that moment, it all seemed idyllic.
Dogged by the memory of it—-and by a fresh wave of fear--tainted guilt—-Rowan scuttles up the stairs to bed, heart pounding.