Page 139 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Every sound makes me look up, every truck makes my shoulders tighten, every passing shadow in the office window registers a little too hard before my brain catches up and says no, that’s just a ranch hand carrying feed, relax, weirdo.

By the time evening rolls around, I feel stretched thin. Like I’ve spent the whole day held together by tabs and highlighted cells and one very stubborn refusal to become the sort of woman who gets scared into silence.

Work finally slows enough that leaving doesn’t feel irresponsible.

I shut down my laptop, slide the most important hard copies into a folder, then change my mind and take only two pages with me.

Paranoia isn’t elegant, but it is adaptable.

The barn office is hushed now. Late enough that the ranch has gone into its evening rhythm.

Distant voices, the thud of a stall door, horses shifting, the muffled sound of life continuing around the edges of my own private nightmare.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head outside.

The sky is fading toward purple and gold, one of those sunsets that feels almost rude in its beauty when your nervous system is busy trying to stage a mutiny.

My car is parked where I left it. I hit the unlock button and hear the soft clunk of the doors. Then I reach for the handle.

And stop.

Because something is wrong.

At first I can’t even tell what, it’s just instinct. That same thin, terrible stillness my body gets before my mind has language.

The passenger seat.

There’s something on the passenger seat.

My heart stops so hard it feels physical. The world narrows instantly.

I open the door slowly, as if whatever is in there might start moving if I’m not careful, and then I see it.

My missing SD card.

Just sitting there.

Small. Black. Innocent looking. For one stupid, surreal second, relief hits me first.

It’s back.

Then I see what’s just next to it.

A single photo print, glossy, four by six. Placed carefully like a gift.

No.

No, no, no.

My fingers go numb.

I stare at it without touching it, because some ancient animal part of my brain has finally clocked in and is screaming now.

The photo is of me. Walking into the office, camera bag over my shoulder, head turned like I heard something just out of frame, taken from behind a tree.

I can tell because the left edge of the photo’s blurred by bark, just enough to anchor the angle. Just enough to make the perspective feel intimate and hidden and so horribly close that my skin goes cold all at once.

The back of my neck prickles.