Melting ice

Unlocked gate

*Ava*

The camera notification wakes me before the second vibration finishes.

For one confused second, I am back in my apartment, staring at a cracked ceiling and waiting for the pipes to stop knocking.

Then I see the blue light under Rasmus's door.

I am out of bed before I remember I am barefoot.

He is sitting upright, phone clenched in one hand, his face drawn tight with pain and something worse. The camera clip plays again on his screen. A figure at the dune fence. A pale envelope. A hand disappearing into the dark.

"Don't move," I tell him.

His eyebrows lift. "I was going to say that to you."

"I mean it."

"I know."

I grab my phone from the nightstand and call Ginnie. She answers on the first ring, her voice thick with sleep until I tell her what happened.

"Caleb and I are coming over," she says. "Call Morales. Do not touch the envelope."

"I know."

"Ava."

"I know."

I hang up and dial the detective. Rasmus watches me from his bed, one hand pressed flat against his lower back. His pain is obvious now. The careful mask has slipped.

"Stay here," I say after I give Morales the address.

He shakes his head, "I am not letting you go outside alone."

"You have a spinal injury."

"And someone is outside our house."

Our.

The word lands between us, soft and dangerous.

I swallow. "You call Caleb, tell him to leave the envelope for the police. Then you stay in this room until I say otherwise."

His mouth opens, ready to argue. I give him the look I use on players who think a concussion protocol is negotiable.

He reaches for his phone.

"Fine," he mutters. "Bossy doctor."

"Compliant patient. Look at us growing."

Butterscotch begins barking outside, deep and furious. A porch light snaps on through the window. Caleb must have let him out.

The envelope remains pinned to the fence on the camera feed.

I stand beside Rasmus's doorway, listening for every sound the house makes. The refrigerator clicks. Wind pushes against the palms. Somewhere outside, Butterscotch gives another sharp bark, then Caleb's voice cuts low through the night.

Rasmus shifts to stand.

"Absolutely not."

"I am only checking the lock."

"I checked it."

He looks at me.

"I checked it twice," I add.

His expression softens, and I hate that he sees too much.

Ginnie and Caleb arrive before the police. Caleb does not come inside at first. He circles the property with Butterscotch on a leash, keeping his distance from the fence. Ginnie enters with a flashlight and her phone, hair loose over a Pelicans sweatshirt.

She looks at me once, then sees Rasmus braced against the bedframe.

"Why is he standing?"

"Because he enjoys pain," I say.

Rasmus gives her a tired smile. "I wanted to help."

"I know," Ginnie says. "Sit down anyway."

When Detective Morales arrives, I make myself walk him through the camera footage. I give him the message folder, the screenshots, the dates, the name from the dating app. My hands shake only when he asks whether I recognize the handwriting on the envelope.

"I don't know," I say.

The envelope has my name on it.

AVA RILEY.

The letters are written in black marker, neat and patient.

Morales photographs it before gloving up. Caleb stands on the porch with his jaw locked. Ginnie keeps one hand around a mug of untouched tea. Rasmus sits in the living room now, pale and silent, his crutch beside him.

The detective opens the envelope.

Inside is a photograph.

It is not of my apartment.

It is from this house.

Me on the back steps yesterday morning, holding Rasmus's medication bottle while he sits in the sun with his shirt pulled over his head.

The picture is grainy. Distant. Close enough.

My stomach drops so hard I have to grip the kitchen counter.

Rasmus makes a sound under his breath, swearing. Swedish, rough and frightened.

Morales looks at me. "We'll add this to the report. Patrol will increase around the property tonight. We'll also contact the beach access office about the cameras."

I nod. I am good at nodding when everything inside me is coming apart.

After he leaves with the envelope sealed in an evidence bag, the house feels violated in a way I cannot clean.

Ginnie closes the curtains. Caleb checks every window latch. Butterscotch plants himself against my calf, warm and solid.

"I hate that I'm scared," I say.

No one answers right away.

Then I look at Ginnie. "I want the arena told. Only who needs to know. I want an escort to and from work, and I want someone with me if I go back to my own place for anything."

"Done," Ginnie says, too quickly. “I will make the club provide this.”

I lift a hand. "I decide who gets the details. I decide when I go back. No team statement. No one turning this into a story."

Her face changes. Less command. More attention.

"Your call," she says. "All of it."

The tightness in my chest loosens by one degree.

Rasmus looks at me from the couch. "And the house?"

I meet his eyes.

"The house stays locked," I say. "We stay where people can reach us. And you stop pretending your pain is a four."

His smile is faint. "It is a five."

"Liar."

"Six."

I cross the room and pick up his crutch before he can reach for it. He watches me as I hold out my hand.

"Bedroom," I tell him.

His fingers close around mine. Large, warm, unsteady.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then Butterscotch sneezes loudly at our feet, and Rasmus lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh.

"Very romantic dog," he says.

"You are not allowed to use that word."

He blinks, “dog?”

“Romantic.”

His thumb brushes once against my knuckles before he lets go.

"Of course, Doctor Riley," he says.

Outside, the gate stands shut again.

Inside, I walk him carefully down the hall, and neither of us says what the photograph has changed.