Two months can change a person.
Or it can reveal who they were always becoming.
On campus, October air carried the scent of fallen leaves and cold mornings. Students hurried between classes, wrapped in sweaters and scarves. The world had shifted seasons.
And slowly, Sarah had shifted with it.
She walked to class without scanning every parked vehicle now.
She answered questions in lectures again.
She laughed — not forced, not hollow — but real.
The nightmares still came, though less often.
And when they did, she didn't scream anymore.
She breathed through them.
Counted backwards.
Focused on the ceiling.
Reminded herself she was home.
The campus therapist helped.
Routine helped more.
Claire and Robyn never left her side in crowded places.
But they no longer hovered.
Normal was returning in pieces.
Molly watched it happen carefully.
Relief came quietly.
Like a slow sunrise.
She buried herself in work.
Midterms.
Client presentations.
Late-night drafting sessions at Harper & Cole.
Her portfolio had expanded rapidly after everything that happened. Clients were oddly sympathetic — more patient with deadlines, more flexible with revisions.
Trauma had a strange way of softening the world temporarily.
She was grateful for that.
And yet—
There were moments at night when she'd catch herself staring at her phone.
No new messages.
No unknown numbers.
Nothing from Brian.
Not since the letter exchange.
Silence wasn't cruelty.
It was discipline.
She knew that.
Still, she missed him.
Missed his steadiness.
Missed the way he made chaos feel manageable.
But she stayed focused.
She had chosen that.
And she meant it.
Brian stood in his office in Branson staring at a board that hadn't changed in weeks.
Jack Davis.
Former Detective.
Status: Active fugitive.
Search radius widened.
Then widened again.
Then quieted publicly.
But internally—
The hunt had not stopped.
Jack had been flagged in national databases.
Driver's license suspended.
Access to all police networks revoked.
Badge formally stripped.
The system had erased him.
And that enraged him more than anything.
Brian knew that.
"Any digital trace?" the Chief asked from the doorway.
"Nothing," Brian replied.
"He hasn't logged into anything?"
"No."
"Burner phones?"
"Minimal activity. Short-lived."
The Chief nodded.
"He's isolating."
"Yes."
"And that makes him more unpredictable."
Brian didn't need the reminder.
He felt it.
Silence wasn't safety.
It was pressure building.
In a rented storage unit just outside Branson city limits, Jack sat on an overturned crate staring at a cracked smartphone screen.
No service.
No social media access.
No official databases.
Every route he once used to track Sarah had been cut.
She had deleted her accounts.
Closed her profiles.
Changed her number.
Switched carriers.
He had tried.
He'd searched variations of her name online.
Public records.
Tagged posts from friends.
Nothing.
It was like she had dissolved.
"You don't get to disappear," he muttered to himself.
He slammed the phone against the concrete wall.
It shattered.
His chest heaved.
He had relied on access.
On information.
On knowing.
Now he had none of it.
Even the department files were locked.
His login credentials had been revoked.
Internal systems flagged.
He was blind.
And Jack did not tolerate blindness.
Back in Carbondale, Sarah scrolled through her brand-new phone cautiously.
Only close friends had her number.
Only family.
She didn't post.
Didn't comment.
Didn't tag.
Digital quiet.
It was safer that way.
"I feel like I'm hiding," she admitted one night while studying.
"You're protecting yourself," Molly corrected gently.
"I hate that he still affects how I live."
Molly reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
"He won't forever."
Sarah nodded slowly.
"I want to travel again someday."
"You will."
"I want to go back to the lake."
Molly's stomach tightened slightly.
"One day," she said softly.
Not soon.
But one day.
Jack had become thinner.
More restless.
He moved locations every few days now.
Not because he was being tracked.
But because he couldn't sit still.
He began driving through Branson at night.
Past the lake.
Past the burned cabin remains.
Past the police station once or twice.
He never stopped.
He just watched.
Watched patrol patterns.
Watched response times.
Watched shifts.
Not planning a return.
Planning something else.
He no longer wanted proximity.
He wanted control restored.
And without digital access—
He would need a different method.
Two months without contact.
Molly had expected that.
But some nights, when the dorm grew quiet, and Sarah slept peacefully across the room, she'd take out Brian's letter and read it again.
Not for longing.
For grounding.
He had respected her decision.
That mattered.
She didn't need daily texts.
She didn't need constant reassurance.
She needed stability.
And she was building it.
Still—
When her phone buzzed unexpectedly one afternoon during class, her pulse jumped.
It wasn't Brian.
It was a campus security alert.
She exhaled slowly.
She hated that adrenaline still lingered.
In Branson, Brian received an update from a rural deputy.
"Suspicious activity near old logging roads," the deputy reported. "Possible trespassing."
Brian's instincts flared.
"Any description?"
"Male. Late thirties. Left before contact."
"Vehicle?"
"Dark sedan. No plates."
Brian stared at the map.
Same quadrant.
Same wooded region.
Same quiet zone.
"He's not leaving," Brian muttered.
"No."
"He's circling."
Jack wasn't running.
He was simmering.
And simmering meant ignition eventually.
One night, Jack stood at the edge of Table Rock Lake.
Cold wind cut across the water.
He stared at the dark surface.
She had stood here once.
Laughing.
Alive.
Unaware.
He clenched his jaw.
"You removed yourself," he said softly into the wind.
As if she could hear him.
As if disappearance was betrayal.
But erasure didn't eliminate obsession.
It intensified it.
Because now—
He had to work harder.
And effort sharpened focus.
Back in Carbondale, Sarah attended a small campus fall festival with her friends.
String lights hung between trees.
Music drifted softly.
Students danced carelessly.
For the first time since the abduction, she forgot to look over her shoulder.
Just for a moment.
She laughed at something Claire said.
And Molly watched her sister smile freely.
Relief flooded her chest.
Maybe—
Maybe this was the turning point.
Maybe the worst had already happened.
Miles away, Brian stared at the latest update.
"Nothing concrete," the Chief said.
"But he's active."
"Yes."
"And angry."
"Yes."
Brian leaned back in his chair slowly.
Jack had lost access.
Lost authority.
Lost her.
And men like him did not accept loss quietly.
He picked up his phone.
Scrolled through contacts.
Stopped at Molly's name.
He didn't call.
He couldn't.
Too much distance.
Too much risk.
Too much unfinished.
He set the phone down.
Because loving someone at the wrong time required restraint.
And restraint was something he understood.
Across the state line, Sarah lay in bed that night feeling almost normal.
Almost safe.
Almost free.
But danger doesn't vanish.
It waits.
And somewhere in the dark woods near Branson—
Jack was no longer trying to reach her through screens.
He was preparing to reach the world in another way.
Because when digital doors close—
Obsession finds physical ones.