Page 75 of Keep Me Close

With a smirk, I follow her out. “You loved it. Don’t even try to tell me differently.”

“I did not love it.”

“Please. You fed a goat and named him Kevin.”

“Tell me he didn’t look like a Kevin.”

I laugh and shake my head. “He did.”

I don’t get more than a step when I spot a box sitting on the floor a few feet from the elevator. It’s black, glossy, and wrapped with a big silver bow. Every ounce of amusement drains out of me as the fine hairs at the nape of my neck prickle.

Chey follows my line of sight. “Did you get a delivery?”

I move without thinking, stepping in front of her just enough to block the view.

“Looks like it,” I say, keeping my tone light even though I’m already on alert. “The front desk drops packages off all the time.”

I crouch and turn the box just enough to check for a label, but there’s nothing.

No name, delivery slip, or card attached to the ribbon.

My muscles tense. “Do me a favor and stay over there.”

“Knox.” Concern floods her voice.

“It’s probably nothing to worry about, but just let me check it out, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Yeah.”

I undo the ribbon carefully and then lift the lid, pushing past tissue paper. I keep telling myself that I’m overreacting. Gifts are sent to me all the time from sponsors or companies hoping I’ll be photographed with their products. It’s part of the job.

At first, my brain doesn’t fully process what I’m seeing.

Then it clicks.

A shattered picture frame with glass cracked in all directions, splintered like someone drove a fist straight through the center of it. Beneath the broken glass is a photo of Chey standing beside Dakota on a red carpet, both smiling for the cameras.

My stomach drops. It’s not just creepy, it’s violent.

A message wrapped up like a gift and left in a place where she’s supposed to be safe.

A piece of paper rests on top of the broken glass. I pick it up, knowing I’m not going to like whatever’s written on it.

The words are in thick, jagged handwriting.

You broke my heart.

Now I’m going to break yours.

Ice floods my veins. This isn’t heartbreak or a dramatic plea for attention.

It’s a threat. A very real one.

Chey takes a step forward. “What is it?”

Even though I try to cover the note, I’m too late. Her gaze slides past my hand to the frame in the box, and the color drains from her face so quickly it’s like someone flipped a switch.

“Oh my God…” Her hand flies to her mouth. “No… No, that’s⁠—”