Episode Ten:The Fire Beneath Us
979 Words
The image haunted me.
My face, slightly younger, frozen in the fluorescent lighting of my old company ID. Printed in grayscale with a corporate badge number at the bottom. Red ink scrawled across the page like it had been dragged by a trembling hand:
You’re next.
I didn’t tell Jace right away.
Not because I didn’t trust him, but because I knew the toll this fight was already taking on him. He was just beginning to sleep again, beginning to breathe without flinching. I didn’t want to pull him back into fear.
But fear was crawling under my skin, sharp and urgent.
If Lucas was watching me now, targeting me—this wasn’t just revenge.
It was escalation.
I deleted the email, then restored it a minute later and forwarded it to our lawyer.
Her response came quickly.
Do not engage. Save everything. You’ll need it. I’ll notify the authorities.
We may need to request protection for you, too.
I stared at her message, the words “protection” and “you, too” flickering in my mind like a warning flare.
We stayed at the lake house for three more days.
Jace didn’t know about the email yet.
During the day, we walked by the shore. He took photos of light on water, of trees folding into the wind. He laughed a little more. Ate without prompting.
Each night, he painted.
Each painting looked a little more like freedom.
But the tightness in my chest never left.
And each time I stepped outside alone—even to breathe—I found myself glancing over my shoulder.
On our last night there, we built a fire.
Sat shoulder to shoulder beneath a heavy blanket on the front porch, the stars like scattered glass above us.
Jace sipped wine slowly.
“I think I’m starting to feel like myself again,” he said, voice soft.
I nodded, heart aching. “You look stronger.”
“I’m not. But I think I’m healing.”
He turned to me. “You’ve been quiet.”
I hesitated.
Then: “I got a message.”
His face shifted. Calm slipped away.
“From who?”
“Lucas. I think. It was anonymous, but… it was personal. About me. About my job. It was meant to scare me.”
He didn’t speak for a moment.
Then said: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to set you back.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“That’s not how this works anymore,” he said. “You don’t protect me from the world. We protect each other.”
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t answer.
But he reached over and took my hand.
And that said more than any words could.
When we returned to the city, the lock on our apartment door had been tampered with.
Not broken. But scratched.
Like someone had tried to pick it, then changed their mind.
Jace saw it first.
He stared at the door, jaw tight, then stepped back and looked down the hallway.
“Do you want to call the police?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They won’t do anything unless something’s taken.”
“But something has been taken,” I said. “Your peace. Our safety.”
He looked at me. “Then we take it back.”
We moved to a short-term rental the next day.
A walk-up across town, owned by a friend of Ruth’s. Plain walls. Old hardwood. No leaks, no questions.
Our lawyer filed an additional protective request—for me this time.
The case was now active.
The DA was reviewing the materials. Lucas had officially been served. Any further contact could now be considered criminal.
It felt like a milestone.
But fear doesn’t vanish with paperwork.
And danger doesn’t always follow rules.
We tried to fall back into a rhythm.
Jace kept painting.
I took a leave from work.
Claire messaged once—short, simple.
“I saw the article. I’m glad you’re safe. And I’m proud of you.”
I read it three times.
Then deleted it.
Not because it hurt, but because it reminded me of the life I left behind.
The one I knew I couldn’t return to.
Then came the fire.
Not in our home.
But in Jace’s former studio.
It happened around midnight. The flames tore through the top floor, gutting everything.
The building was old. The wiring outdated. The report said it was likely accidental.
But we both knew better.
Lucas had access. History. And motive.
The flames took what was left of Jace’s past—the canvases he hadn’t moved, the sketches he couldn’t carry, the physical ghosts he hadn’t finished burying.
We stood outside the caution tape the next morning.
Jace wore a hoodie, sunglasses. Still, a few reporters tried to speak to him.
He said nothing.
Just stood there, watching the smoke rise from what had once been his sanctuary.
I stood beside him.
When we finally walked away, he whispered, “He’s trying to burn what I am.”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “He’s trying to burn who you were. But he can’t touch who you are now.”
He looked at me.
And nodded.
That night, he painted in silence.
His hands shook.
His eyes stayed dry.
But his brush moved like a blade.
When he was done, he showed it to me.
It was all black.
Except for one line of gold through the center.
“What do you call it?” I asked.
He looked me in the eyes.
“Me.”
The next morning, a court date arrived in the mail.
Lucas was countersuing for defamation.
But beneath the envelope, slipped quietly in the mailbox—
Was a polaroid.
Jace and I.
Sleeping.
Together.
In our bed.
Someone had been inside.
- Writer
