Page 101 of Three Months Yesterday

I smile against his chest, picturing it. Him as a boy, rolling his eyes at his father’s terrible voice, and sneaking the burnt cookies into the trash when his mother wasn’t looking.

“I never went a day not knowing how much they loved me,” he continues, his voice thickening. “Not a single day. They came to every Little League game, every school play, every terrible band recital. Even when they were busy, even when they were tired—one of them was always there.”

His hand stills on my back, his fingers pressing into my skin like he’s anchoring himself.

“I shouldn’t have let them come to that show.” He swallows hard. “I should have checked the weather. Made us stay the night in the city. If I just⁠—”

“Beckett.” I lift my head again, my hand coming to sup his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.” He turns his head to press a kiss to my palm. “I know that here.” He taps his temple. “But here?” He touches his chest. “That’s harder.”

I haven’t experienced it the way he has, but I nod in understanding. Getting how grief and guilt tangle together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“They would’ve loved you,” he says quietly. “They would’ve been so happy I found you.”

My throat tightens, tear pricking at my eyes. “I know I would’ve loved them too,” I whisper. “Anyone who raised you…”

He kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of everything we still haven’t said.

Three sharp knocks at the front door cut through the moment like a knife.

Beckett eases off the couch and grabs his underwear, slipping them on before reaching for the shirt he tore off me earlier and slipping it over his shoulder. His eyes find mine as he buttons the flannel, checking to make sure the blanket covers every inch of me.

“Stay here,” he murmurs.

I can’t see the door from my position, but I hear when he unlocks and opens the door. No other sound follows.

He reappears a moment later carrying a box—plain cardboard, small enough to fit under one arm.

“There’s no one out there,” he says, his voice strange, almost flat. “Just this.”

He sets it on the coffee table, taking a seat next to me. My name is written on top in careful block letters. No address, no postage, just Madison.

The cardboard is cold as I pull the box closer, peeling back the tape and lifting the flaps.

Inside is a porcelain doll with blonde hair and rosy cheeks in a blue dress, its painted face smiling up at me. Beautiful and terrifying all at one.

I lift it out and the tissue underneath shifts revealing a photograph underneath—me and Beckett at Liberty Tavern three days ago. His hand holds mine over the table, a broad smile on his face as my head is thrown back in a loud laugh.

Beneath the photo, in the same block letters is a note that has my blood running cold.

Keep your hands off my man. He’s not yours. Never will be.

The doll’s head lolls back, loose on its neck, and I drop it. It hits the floor with a ceramic crack, the face splitting into a jagged smile.

Beckett’s already on his phone. “Aiden. We need you here. Someone left a package. It was addressed to Madison, but I don’t—it’s the stalker.” He hangs up and sinks onto the couch beside me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. “He’s on his way. Let’s go get you dressed.”

Beckett has to do all the work, lifting me from the couch and taking me up to my room. He even has to dress me I’m shaking so hard.

The knock comes minutes later, just as Beckett is settling me back on the couch.

Aiden doesn’t wait for Beckett to answer, using his key to come inside. He takes in the scene with one sweep—the broken doll on the floor, the photo. His jaw ticks, a muscle jumping in his cheek and the brother disappears, the cop taking over.

He’s quick—precise—as he analyzes everything around him, asks the questions he needs to decide what the next steps are.

“They’re escalating,” he murmurs, his eyes focused on the doll.

“Aiden,” Beckett calls. “What are⁠—”