Maya's POV
"Maya!"
Jake's arms caught me before I hit the ground. My legs had turned to water. The postcard with Emma's handwriting was still on the floor where I'd dropped it.
"I saw her," I gasped. "Jake, I saw her. Emma. She was right there."
"Who? I didn't see anyone." Jake helped me stand, his face full of concern. "Maya, you're ice cold. Come on, let's get you inside."
"No, you don't understand!" I pulled away from him, stumbling to the building entrance. The street was empty except for falling snow and Christmas lights reflecting off the pavement. No woman. No Emma. Nothing.
"She was here," I whispered. "She spoke to me. She asked if I got her postcard."
Jake picked up the postcard from the floor and read it. His face went pale. "Maya, this is Emma Chen's handwriting?"
"Yes. Exactly like it. She used to write me notes in middle school. I'd know her writing anywhere."
"But Emma's been dead for seven years."
"I KNOW!" My voice cracked. "I know she's dead, Jake! I was at her funeral! But someone just sent me this postcard, and someone who looks exactly like her just talked to me, and I'm either losing my mind or—"
"Or what?"
I didn't have an answer. What was the alternative? Ghosts? That was crazy. But so was someone who looked exactly like Emma appearing seven years after her death.
Jake took my hand. His was warm and solid and real. "Let's go inside. We need to think about this clearly."
Back in the apartment, Lucy was still watching cartoons, completely unaware that her mother was falling apart. I envied her innocence. When had I last felt safe enough to just watch TV and not worry about anything?
Jake sat me down at the kitchen table and made me tea, like this was his house and he'd been doing it for years. Maybe in another life, he would have been. Maybe if I'd never met Derek, Jake and I would be married by now. Lucy would be his daughter. We'd have a real Christmas tree and presents and all the normal things that normal families had.
But that wasn't my life. My life was running and hiding and looking over my shoulder.
"Drink this," Jake said gently, sliding the mug toward me.
I wrapped my hands around it, needing the warmth. "You think I'm crazy."
"I think you're scared. There's a difference." Jake sat across from me, his firefighter uniform still on from work. He must have been in the middle of his shift when he came to the diner. "Tell me about Emma. How did she die?"
The memories hurt like fresh bruises. "She drowned in Miller Lake. Seven years ago, three days before Christmas." Just like now. The timing couldn't be a coincidence. "The police said she fell in by accident. She was walking alone at night, and the ice was thin that year."
"But you don't believe that."
"Emma was terrified of water. She never went near the lake, especially not alone. And that night..." I stopped, the guilt crushing my chest. "That night, she'd called me. She said she had proof of what Derek was doing to me. Evidence. She said she was going to help me escape."
Jake leaned forward. "What kind of evidence?"
"I don't know. I never found out. Emma said she'd meet me at the park at midnight with everything. But she never showed up. The next morning, they found her body in the lake." Tears burned my eyes. "Derek had an alibi. He was at a work party with fifty witnesses. The police ruled it an accident. But I knew—I KNEW—that he'd done something. He'd found out about Emma's plan somehow."
"Did you tell the police your suspicions?"
"Who would believe me? I was Derek's wife. He was charming, successful, perfect on the outside. I was the crazy, paranoid one. That's what he told everyone. That's what he made me believe about myself." I wiped my eyes angrily. "After Emma died, I gave up. I stayed with Derek for five more years. Until Lucy was born. That's when I finally found the courage to run."
Jake reached across the table and took my hand. "You're not crazy, Maya. Someone is doing this to you. Someone who knows about Emma, who knows about your past. We just need to figure out who."
"But why? Why now? Why send postcards signed by a dead woman?"
"I don't know yet. But we'll find out." Jake squeezed my hand. "I'm not leaving you alone tonight. I'll sleep on your couch. Tomorrow, we'll go to the police and show them the postcards and tell them about Derek being in town."
"The police won't care about postcards."
"They will when I tell them Derek's been stalking you and your daughter. Trust me, Maya. I know half the cops in this town. They'll listen."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that someone could actually protect us. But experience had taught me that the only person I could count on was myself.
Still, I was so tired of being alone.
"Okay," I whispered. "You can stay."
Relief flooded Jake's face. "Thank you for trusting me."
After Jake called his fire station to say he was taking personal time, I tucked Lucy into bed. She was already half-asleep, clutching her worn teddy bear.
"Mommy?" she murmured. "Is Mr. Jake staying?"
"Just for tonight, baby."
"Good. I like him. He's nice." Lucy yawned. "Can we get a Christmas tree tomorrow? Please?"
My heart broke a little. "We'll see, sweetie."
"That means no." Lucy's eyes were sad. "It's okay, Mommy. I know we don't have much money. But maybe Santa will bring us a tiny tree. A really tiny one."
I kissed her forehead, fighting back tears. "Sweet dreams, baby girl."
Back in the living room, Jake had pulled out blankets and a pillow for the couch. He looked out of place in our tiny apartment, this big, strong man in a space meant for broken people.
"She wants a Christmas tree," I said quietly.
"Then let's get her one tomorrow."
"Jake, I can't—"
"I'll pay for it. Don't argue." His voice was gentle but firm. "Every kid deserves a Christmas tree."
I was too tired to fight. Too tired to push him away. Too tired to pretend I didn't need help.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Get some sleep, Maya. I'll keep watch."
I went to my bedroom but knew I wouldn't sleep. My mind kept replaying the woman who looked like Emma. Her voice. Her smile. The way she'd said my name.
Did you get my postcard?
Around midnight, I gave up on sleep and pulled out the old shoebox from my closet. Inside were photos I hadn't looked at in years. Me and Emma as little girls, making pinky promises under the stars. Me and Jake at prom, looking so young and happy. Me and Derek on our wedding day, before I knew what he really was.
I found one photo that made my breath catch. It was Emma and me at the Christmas Festival, standing in front of the light display, arms around each other. We must have been fifteen. On the back, Emma had written: Best friends forever. I'll always protect you, no matter what. Promise.
A sound from the living room made me freeze.
Footsteps. But they weren't Jake's heavy firefighter boots. These were light. Careful. Like someone trying not to be heard.
I grabbed my phone and crept to my bedroom door, heart hammering. Through the crack, I could see Jake asleep on the couch, his chest rising and falling steadily.
But standing at the window, silhouetted against the Christmas lights from the street, was a figure.
A woman.
She turned, and even in the darkness, I could see her face clearly.
Emma.
She pressed something against the window from outside—a new postcard. Then she put her finger to her lips in a "shh" gesture and pointed down at Jake, as if warning me not to wake him.
I blinked, and she was gone.
I ran to the window, but the fire escape was empty. Only footprints in the fresh snow, leading down and disappearing into the alley.
With shaking hands, I unlocked the window and grabbed the postcard she'd left.
The message made my blood turn to ice:
He's not who he says he is, Maya. The fire didn't make him a hero—it made him a killer. Don't trust Jake. Don't trust anyone. They're all lying to you. Meet me tomorrow at the lights, and I'll show you the truth about that night. About Derek. About Jake. About everything. Come alone, or people will die. —Emma
I stared at the sleeping man on my couch—the man I'd just started to trust again.
And I realized I had no idea who to believe anymore.