Annabell had sworn to never return home after what they had done to her. She'd barely escaped with her life back then, a scared, broke, exhausted teen. She'd run from that hell-hole of a place and never looked back. She'd built a life for herself, gotten a job, went to school, changed her name, worked hard.

And now, ten years later, they'd found her. Someone in that godforsaken town above Portland Maine had found her in Portland, Oregon. Clear across the country. And she'd been summoned by her grandfather's attorney, old Ben Chaffey, to return.

"Why?" she'd asked. "What's this all about?"

"Oh, family stuff," he'd replied. "When can you come?"

"Family? I ran away from that years ago." She shuddered. "I've got a new life now."

"You may have forgotten them, but they haven't forgotten you, the aging lawyer said.

"What do you mean?

"Your grandparents, the Judge and his wife left everything to you. The house, the business, the rentals, the yacht."

"What?" Annie gulped. "Is this a joke?"

"Nope, you're it, kiddo. I hear you went to law school, guess they found out too, so they made you their sole heir."

Annabell Smith who used to be Annabell Van Arsdale back then shuddered. This couldn't be true.

"This can't be true," she said. "They hated me, they blamed my mother for leading their son astray, they wouldn't deign to speak to us..."

"It's all true. Your brother is in for twenty to life, your sister has disappeared, your dad's crawled into the bottle. So you're who they chose."

Annie pictured old Ben Chaffey as she'd last seen him, sitting in his big leather chair behind the huge carved oak desk in his book-lined office on Main Street with a view of the courthouse across the way. The day that he'd handed her the emancipation papers. The day she'd left town for good.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Wasn't difficult. Your grandfather hired a private eye to find you and knew where you were this whole time. Sometimes he sent you money anonymously, paid toward your tuition. He was very proud of you."

Annie gasped. It was true. She'd actually been gifted quite a bit of money over the years--"I thought it was government grants and stuff, scholarships, you know." She'd always worked on the side for living expenses, but there had been help.

"Oh, that's how he wanted it. It was your grandmother who blamed your mother for driving your dad to drink." He sighed. "Your grandma was that way. Hard-headed to a fault."

"OMG. Well, it'll take me a few days to settle things here."

"I'll arrange for someone to care for things while you're doing that," Ben replied.

"Do you need any money--I can transfer some to pay the bills."

Ben laughed. "There's a positive balance in their accounts." He paused. "Around twenty."

"You'll need more than twenty bucks to pay the utilities, Mr. Chaffey."

"Uhh, that's twenty mil. As in million my dear. Old Judge Van Arsdale was pretty good with money."

Annie laughed. Good wasn't the word for it. He had the first nickel he ever made.

Annie ended the call with a gracious "Thank you, Mr. Chaffey. Thanks for calling," a politeness that masked her inner turmoil.

Could she leave everything that she'd worked so hard for here and now and take on the responsibilities of an old victorian mansion, an estate really with all that went along with that?

Well, she'd find out shortly.

She turned and punched her boss's number.

"Guess what..." she said as he picked up. "Family Emergency."

Annie didn’t pack so much as flee.

By the time she hung up with her boss, her apartment felt suddenly too small, too temporary—like a stage set she’d been living inside without noticing the painted walls. She moved through it on instinct, pulling clothes from drawers, stuffing toiletries into a bag, unplugging chargers with the same numb efficiency she’d once used to escape the Van Arsdale house at seventeen.

Her hands only started shaking when she reached for her passport.Not because she needed it.Because she remembered the last time she’d held it—clutched in a trembling fist as she boarded a Greyhound headed west, praying no one would come after her.

No one had.Or so she’d believed.

She zipped the suitcase shut and stood in the middle of her living room, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, the quiet life she’d built brick by brick. A life that suddenly felt borrowed.

Twenty million dollars.A Victorian mansion.A business empire.A yacht, for God’s sake.

It was absurd. It was impossible. It was a trap.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

We’re glad you’re coming home, Annabell.

Her stomach dropped.

She swallowed hard. “Nope,” she whispered to the empty room. “Absolutely not.”

But she was already grabbing her keys.

Portland’s evening sky was a bruised purple, the kind that made the streetlights flicker on early. Annie merged onto I‑84, her pulse thudding in her throat. She kept checking her mirrors, half-expecting a black sedan to appear behind her.

Ridiculous.Paranoid.Except… someone had found her. Someone had been watching long enough to know where she lived, where she worked, what name she used.

Ben Chaffey hadn’t sounded threatening. But the Van Arsdales never needed to raise their voices to ruin someone.

Her mother had learned that the hard way.

As she drove, memories she’d locked away began to seep through the cracks—her grandmother’s cold eyes, the Judge’s booming voice, the house with its shuttered windows and rooms that smelled of lemon polish and secrets.

She gripped the wheel tighter.

“Just get there,” she muttered. “Get answers. Get out.”

But a small, traitorous part of her whispered something else:

What if they left you more than money? What if they left you the truth?

The terminal was bright, loud, anonymous—comforting in its chaos. Annie checked her bag, printed her boarding pass, and tried to breathe normally.

She was almost through security when her phone buzzed again.

Another unknown number.

This time, a photo.

Her apartment building.Taken from across the street.Taken tonight.

Her blood ran cold.

Then a second message:

Hurry home, Annabell. Before someone else gets to you first.

Annie didn’t notice the man until the plane was already taxiing.

She’d boarded early, shoved her carry‑on under the seat, and curled into the window like someone trying to make herself small. She’d been too busy replaying the anonymous texts to pay attention to the passengers filing past.

But when the man in 14C sat down, she felt it—that prickling awareness at the base of her skull, the one she’d learned to trust.

He was mid‑forties, maybe older, with a face that looked carved rather than aged. Not handsome. Not forgettable. Something in between, like a sketch someone had erased and redrawn too many times. He wore a dark coat despite the warm cabin, and when he buckled his seatbelt, she noticed the faintest tremor in his hand.

Nerves? Or adrenaline?

He didn’t look at her. Not once. Which somehow made it worse.

The plane lifted off, Portland shrinking beneath them. Annie pressed her forehead to the window, trying to steady her breathing. She told herself she was being paranoid. That the texts were a coincidence. That no one on this plane cared who she was.

Then the man in 14C spoke.

Not to her.To someone on the phone.

Quietly.Too quietly.

She wouldn’t have heard a word if the engines hadn’t dipped for a moment.

“…yes, she’s on the flight.”

Her blood iced.

A pause. A soft exhale.

“No. She doesn’t know.”

Annie’s pulse hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, forcing her body to stay still.

Another pause.

“Yes. I’ll handle it when we land.”

Her stomach dropped.

Handle what?

She swallowed, throat dry. She needed to think. Needed to plan. Needed to—

The man ended the call.

And only then did he turn his head, just slightly, as if checking on her peripheral shape. Not enough to meet her eyes. Just enough to confirm she was still there.

Annie forced herself not to flinch.

She’d survived worse.She’d run farther.She wasn’t seventeen anymore.

But as the plane cut through the darkening sky, she realized something with a cold, sinking certainty:

Whoever wanted her back in Maine wasn’t just waiting for her.

They were already here.