The Next Morning, My Porch Wasn’t Normal
The next morning, I woke up to a strange noise on my front porch.
At first I assumed it was Mrs. Clinton’s cat messing with my trash again.
But when I opened the door, my brain stalled.
There was a silver Subaru Outback parked at the curb.
Clean. New-looking. And on the hood—like it belonged in a commercial—sat a giant red bow.
At my feet was a wooden crate packed with groceries and baby supplies.
Diapers. Wipes. Formula. Tiny onesies folded like someone cared about the details.
On top was an envelope with my name written in careful handwriting.
RILEY.
My hands started shaking before I even opened it, because my body already knew this wasn’t random.
The letter inside was from Gray.
But the first sentence made my stomach drop.
“First, please forgive the way I found your address.”
I sank onto the porch steps, reading as my pulse got louder in my ears.
He explained he’d noticed my license plate at the grocery store.
He’d asked an old friend—someone who used to work for the police department—to help him track me down.
Not to hurt me.
Not to scare me.
To return what he called a kindness.
I kept reading.
And then I hit the part that made everything from the store feel… staged.
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