Page 125 of Mine To Hunt

Istand in front of Mily's house, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and fear that makes my stomach twist uncomfortably as I think about what she might reveal to me today.

The bus ride here took nearly forty minutes through winding countryside roads, and every mile stretched my nerves tighter as I kept wondering if the stalker was somehow tracking me even out here in this remote area.

I finally gather my courage and ring the doorbell. The sound echoes inside, and I wait, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as doubts flood my mind about whether this meeting will bring answers or just more questions that haunt me.

The door opens, and a girl a little older than me stands there. She studies me carefully, her posture guarded, her eyes alert in a way that feels practiced rather than natural. It is not suspicion exactly. It is caution. The kind that comes from learning the hard way that even a simple knock on the door can carry risk.

My chest tightens. We are connected by that look. The quiet, measured awareness of someone who has already been watched once and refuses to be caught off guard again.

I force a small smile and introduce myself, my voice coming out steadier than I feel inside.

"Hi, I’m Iris Whitlock. We spoke on the phone."

Mily studies me carefully for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she is assessing whether I am trustworthy or just another complication in her life. She doesn’t step aside immediately. Her fingers remain hooked around the edge of the door.

"Yes." She says at last. "I remember. Come in, Iris."

I step into the house, feeling a wave of relief wash over me because being inside feels safer than standing out in the open where anyone could be watching. The door closes behind me with a firm click.

The living room is neat but not staged. Books stacked in careful piles, curtains drawn just enough to let light in without exposing too much of the interior. Mily gestures toward the sofa but remains standing for a second longer than necessary, watching me take in the room.

"You came alone?" She asks casually.

"Yes."

"No one knows you’re here?"

The question is softer, but sharper.

"I told my editor I was following up on a lead." I reply. "But no one knows the address."

She nods once, absorbing that.

We sit down across from each other. There’s a noticeable distance between us. Not just the coffee table. At first the conversation is light and cautious, like we are both testing the waters before diving into the deeper topics that brought me here.

Mily folds her hands neatly in her lap. "Forty minutes drive just to make a conversation. You must really want something from this meeting."

There’s no accusation in her tone, but there is calculation.

I force a smile, trying to hide the desperation I feel inside because I need answers more than I can express right now. "I guess I do. It felt important enough to make the trip."

A silence stretches between us.

I meet her gaze directly, feeling the weight of her skepticism but hoping my honesty will bridge the gap. "Some stories do not really end, even if people want them to. They just go underground and keep affecting lives in ways no one sees."

Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"You think you see something." She says quietly. "But you don’t know what it cost."

"Then tell me." I say, more gently this time. "Tell me what it cost."

She looks away first. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. Her gaze drifts toward the window, scanning the street as if checking for movement. Old habit. Old fear.

"You’re very direct." She says.

"I don’t have the luxury of circling around it."

"And why is that?"