Followed by Fear

By Evan Purcell

A city girl needs the help of a small-town sheriff to stop her stalker.

Harper's Bend is the perfect small town, especially on Halloween. Filled with friendly locals and rural traditions, Sydney views this place as her only chance to take back her life and flee from the mysterious stalker who's been after her since the death of her husband.

 

She didn't expect the danger to follow her, and she definitely didn't expect to develop such an instant connection to local sheriff, Preston Blacker. He's standoffish, and treats her more like a problem to solve than an actual person. There's a reason for his distance, though, and Sydney realizes that she's not the only one struggling with a dark past.

 

As the stalker's efforts escalate, Sydney and Preston must work together to find out who is following them. But can they keep their emotions in check long enough to save themselves?

 

Followed by Fear is a romantic suspense story where the heroine finds protection in the arms of a complicated hero while surrounded by the holiday trappings of rural New Mexico. It's perfect for fans of the high-stakes thrills of Cassie Miles and the quirky small towns of Maddie Day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958136768

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Sydney Scott woke up from another dreamless night. She was alone in a house that seemed much too big for her, a house meant for a family. At first, she didn’t know what had woken her. The room was dark. The noises from the street below weren’t particularly loud. No sirens or anything.

Then she realized: the smell. She smelled smoke. Something was burning. She’d always bugged her husband, Tom, about replacing the batteries in their fire detectors. He always said he would. Apparently, he never got a chance.

And now ...

She coughed.

There was no telling how long the smoke had been filling the house. Her bedroom was on the second floor, and the dark plumes were already rising from under the door. She held her hand over her mouth, but that didn’t do much to ease her coughing fit. She jumped off her bed, almost expecting the hardwood floors to be hot under her bare feet. They weren’t. She ran to the door.

What was she supposed to do?

Think, Sydney. Think.

What did the visiting firemen teach you back in elementary school? Should you open the door right away? Should you test it somehow?

In her groggy mind, she envisioned the hallway outside to be a massive wall of flames. If she opened the door, would those flames burst inside?

Just in case, she ran to her window and looked out.

Second story. Twenty feet. A straight drop onto her concrete driveway. No, she couldn’t jump. She’d shatter both her legs, if she were lucky. More likely, the fall would kill her.

Back to the door. Okay, Sydney. You have to check if it’s safe. What do you do?

Somewhere, in a part of her memory banks that she hadn’t accessed in years, she remembered something about the back of her hand. That was how she needed to test the door’s heat level, but she didn’t remember why.

Why not the front of her hand? She didn’t know.

But she was fairly certain that she should be pressing the back of her hand against the door.

She slowly felt the wooden surface. It wasn’t hot. Thank God.

She touched her fingertip against the doorknob. Again, still not hot. The door, at least, was safe.

Very slowly, she pulled the door open. Instantly, a mass of black smoke entered the room, striking her right in the face. That was when she remembered the other two lessons from her primary school: Stay as low to the ground as possible. Don’t breathe too deeply.

Between coughing fits, Sydney crouched lower to the ground and crept through the hallway. Just keep going, she told herself. You can do it.

She started down the stairs. Much more smoke was coming from the ground floor. She didn’t know where the fire started, but she knew she was getting closer to its source.

As she reached the bottom of the steps, and as the air got harder and harder to breathe, her thoughts of just keep going were replaced by something much darker: Maybe this is for the best.

After what she’d done—after these long weeks of living alone, living with her guilt—maybe this was how everything was supposed to end. In some big, fiery blaze. Maybe she deserved it.

No. She said the word out loud. She wasn’t going to let those thoughts take over. She was going to get out of there. She was going to survive without the help of anyone else. She didn’t need anyone else. She just needed herself and her own willpower. This was no time to allow for doubts and regrets. From now on, she would survive by her own strength.

She looked around the ground floor. It was an open plan between her living room and kitchen, which meant she had an equal shot of making it to the front door or the back door. Judging by the smoke, though, it looked like the fire had started in the kitchen.

Sweat rolled down her face. She felt trapped inside the heat. She still couldn’t see flames, but the temperature was pushing in on her from all directions.

Each time she coughed, more energy leaked from her body.

Front door. She had to make it to the front door.

Squinting her eyes ... taking short, shallow breaths ... creeping on unsteady legs ... she made it past her living room couch, past the end table, past the ...

What was that?

She could barely see through the smoke now, but she saw the shape of something on her coffee table. It was small and square and hadn’t been there before.

Sydney knew she needed to get out of the house before she blacked out, but she had to see that object. What was it? She crawled toward the end table.

BAM! Something collapsed in the kitchen. The roof? She didn’t want to know.

She crawled closer to the coffee table, squinting her eyes in a desperate effort to see through the thickening smoke. When she was only inches away, she could finally identify the object. It was a framed photo of Tom. Someone had placed it there. The last time she’d seen that photo ... it was sitting on his grave.

Who was doing this?

Now more than ever, she knew she had to get out of the building. Someone had set her house ablaze. Someone had planted that picture. Someone wanted her dead.

And she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

She reached the front door. She didn’t have the energy to check its warmth with the back of her hand. She barely had enough energy to reach out. Using her last bit of strength, she twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. The cool night air struck her face, giving her instant relief.

She breathed deeply as she crawled onto her porch, and then onto her front yard.

She heard the faint sounds of approaching sirens. She watched her house disappear. Her eyes were closing. She was losing consciousness.

Her last thought, as the world drifted away in a smoky haze, was that she needed to get out of town. She needed to go somewhere she’d never been before, somewhere safe. And she needed to rely on herself. Alone.

CHAPTER 1

––––––––

Excuse me, sir? Sydney asked. When it was clear that the old man hadn’t heard her, she cleared her throat. Sir? I’m a little lost and ...

The man behind the counter didn’t look up. One moment, little lady. He put the finishing touches on a pumpkin. Like most jack-o-lanterns, this one had triangle eyes and a square-toothed smile. Unlike most jack-o-lanterns, it was sitting next to a cash register and a bin of novelty keychains.

Sydney waited. She glanced toward the parking lot outside, but all she saw was darkness. She needed to stop doing that. No one was outside. No one was watching her.

After what felt like a minute of slow-motion Matrix-speed, the man—Buster, if his handwritten nametag was accurate—positioned the grinning pumpkin in the exact right spot and looked up at his customer. Now, what can I do for you?

Sydney Scott was in a gas station on the outskirts of Harper’s Bend, New Mexico. Her new house was somewhere in the immediate vicinity, but she’d spent several hours driving around, and she still hadn’t found it. Against all odds, she’d gotten lost in a town of twenty-five thousand.

Of course, she’d never been here before. Never even heard of Harper’s Bend before three days ago, when she’d picked it randomly on a road map of America. (Good thing she wasn’t using a globe, she’d told herself, or else she’d end up somewhere in the middle of the Pacific.) Truth was, Sydney had stuck with Harper’s Bend precisely because she had no connection to it. That way, no one would be able to follow her here. She’d be safe from ... whoever was trying to kill her.

Uh ... Sydney had forgotten that Buster was waiting for an answer. Actually, I just need some directions.

You must be a newcomer in these parts, Buster said, patting his pumpkin on the head.

How can you tell? she asked, a twinge of nervousness surging through her. She hated how every little thing was setting off her alarm bells. This man wasn’t a threat and she knew it.

He squinted his eyes, as if she’d just asked him the dumbest question in the English language. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone here, he said. And I don’t know you. Besides ... locals don’t need directions.

Well, she said, I won’t be staying very long. She instantly regretted her words. Not only did it feel like over-sharing, but she also wasn’t sure it was true. She’d stay here as long as she needed to, as long as there was still someone after her. That could mean a day, a week, or—God forbid—forever.

Judging by Buster’s expression, Sydney realized she’d offended him. She quickly added, Though I do appreciate the small-town hospitality.

That got him to smile, though not as widely as his pumpkin.

Sydney couldn’t help thinking that the man had very nice teeth for a sixty-something gas station owner named Buster. It was probably an offensive thought, though. If she was ever going to feel comfortable in Harper’s Bend, she’d really need to start reevaluating her assumptions while she was here.

The bell tinkled behind her. She turned to see a tall, muscular man walk toward them, guiding a teen boy by the back of his collar. Even without the uniform and the teenage delinquent wriggling uncomfortably under his grip, there was no doubt that this guy was a policeman. He moved with the sort of steady confidence that showed complete control of the situation. He wasn’t rough with the kid, but he also wasn’t going to put up with any nonsense, though Sydney couldn’t help but notice how his handsome face was hiding a bemused smirk.

And he certainly was handsome. He had short, sandy-colored hair, mostly covered by his wide hat, and a tall, athletic frame that exuded the kind of natural strength that came more from hard work than any sort of gym routine. His eyes were magnetic—more gray than blue—and his square jaw had just a hint of stubble. He glanced at her for a second, but then he walked right past and led the teen straight to Buster.

Sheriff Blacker! What brings you here?

Sydney was surprised to hear the word sheriff come out of Buster’s mouth. She expected him to be just a normal cop, not the big boss of Harper’s Bend. When she thought of sheriffs, she thought of some old, fat-bellied cowboy chewing on a toothpick. She didn’t picture someone so ... hot.

Sheriff Blacker let go of the teen. I caught this little graffiti artist out back.

Again? I swear, Ned. If you weren’t my own flesh and blood ...

Ned seemed like a fitting name for the scrawny teen, who was leaning against the counter with his head hung low. I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t send me to prison. I promise this won’t happen again.

Sheriff Blacker shook his head. I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.

Buster asked, What was he writing this time?

Nothing, Gramps. I—

Sheriff Blacker cut him off. He was declaring his love again.

Buster, apparently the boy’s grandfather, looked at him with a mixture of emotions. Disappointment. Annoyance. Amusement. Surprise didn’t seem to be one of them.

I’m a hopeless romantic, Sheriff, Ned said. Is that a crime?

No, Ned, the sheriff answered. But vandalism is.

Buster harrumphed. Kid, I told you to stop with the public displays of whatever. They never work. That Amy girl has turned you down six times now.

From behind Ned’s back, the sheriff mouthed out the word, Seven. When the boy spun his head around to see what the sheriff was doing, Blacker added, It wasn’t Amy’s name he was writing this time.

Ned turned back toward his grandpa. I’m done with Amy. I don’t love her anymore.

Then whose name ...?

Behind the boy’s back, Sheriff Blacker mouthed out the name, Jenny Marks.

Buster clutched his heart. Jenny Marks?

I love her, Gramps.

Is she the one with the nose ring?

It’s a stud!

Buster nudged his pumpkin to the side, calmly leaned his body over the counter, and grabbed his grandson by the shirt. I’ll stud you upside the snotbox.

Gramps!

Sydney had been standing there silently for this whole exchange. Should she say something? Should she silently back away and get in her car? She didn’t know these people, yet she had the distinct feeling she was watching some private living room spat. Honestly, it was nice to focus on other people’s problems for a while. It stopped her from worrying about herself.

Shall I take him into the station? the sheriff asked. The case seems pretty cut and dry.

Ned shook his head furiously. No, sir. I won’t do it again.

Buster?

The old man threw his hands into the air. Oh, it’s all right. I’ll handle the little Picasso myself.

Very well, Sheriff Blacker said. He left the grandfather and grandson to finish their bickering alone, then walked past Sydney and tipped his hat to her. Ma’am.

She didn’t know how to respond. Normally, she’d bristle if someone called her ma’am, but this time, she didn’t mind.

Before he got to the door, he stopped. Ma’am, you need some directions?

She wasn’t sure how he knew that. Probably the lost look on her face.

Uh ... yeah.

He nodded for her to follow him outside.

She did, though she couldn’t stop herself from glancing around the empty parking lot. Just in case.

The cool air blasted her face, reminding her that this was October, and she wasn’t in California anymore. Not like she needed a reminder about that second part, especially as she stood face-to-face with an escapee from a direct-to-streaming Western movie.

Sheriff? she said.

Sheriff Preston Blacker, he introduced himself. You can just call me Preston.

Sydney, she said. Scott. She was still using her married name, even though Tom had been gone for over three months now. She added, Thanks for helping me. I went in there for directions, but that old guy seems ... preoccupied.

Preston laughed.

So ... yeah. I’m lost.

He gave her a short nod. I’ll say. A big city girl like you, all the way out in Harper’s Bend.

Big city girl. What did he know about her? She felt a sudden chill, a wave of paranoia. How could you tell? she asked.

That you’re from the big city? he said. Well, you look like you’re in a hurry to get wherever you’re going. I figure you’re from ... Albuquerque? Dallas?

San Francisco, she answered. She knew she shouldn’t give away any personal information, especially to people she’d just met, but the answer just slipped out. Besides, she was an awful liar. A policeman would see through a fake answer in a second.

Really? He shook his head. "Ma’am. You are very lost if you’re trying to find Haight and Ashbury."

No, she interrupted. This’ll be my home for a while. I rented a house over on ... She fished a crumpled paper out of her pocket. Garris Street, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere. I don’t think my GPS knows this place exists.

You need an escort?

Her pulse quickened. She imagined the muscular cop taking her by the arm and escorting her ... Where? A dinner party? Her high school prom?

She forced herself to stop imagining things. Despite his ridiculously good looks—piercing eyes, broad shoulders, and that sort of all-American everything—he was just another local in this randomly chosen place.

Besides, the kind of guy who would offer to escort her ... that seemed a bit too protective for her. Even if she needed the help, she didn’t want to think of herself as helpless. She’d lived through enough in the last few months to qualify for survivor status. And she was a survivor who did things on her own.

Naw, she answered. Just directions. He didn’t say anything, and she quickly added, Please.

This was a small town. She had to remember her pleases and thank yous.

It’s no trouble, he said. Really.

No. I can find it. I’m sure you have more lovesick artists to apprehend. She was twisting a strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous tick. She forced herself to stop.

He smiled. You have a paper?

No. She said that without realizing that there was a scrap of paper still in her hand, the one with her new address written in black Sharpie.

He shrugged and pulled a pen out of his front pocket. Then he reached for her hand, but she reflexively pulled away. She trusted him, though, and she didn’t want to seem skittish. Slowly,