Updated Feb 18, 2026 • ~5 min read
WILLA
I’m losing my mind. That’s the only explanation. Because I’m sitting in my apartment with a three-year-old sketch printout, comparing it to the LinkedIn profile I found for “Aaron Stone, Security Consultant.” And they match. Not sort of. Not close enough. Exactly. Same facial structure. Same eyes. Same everything.
Lennox thinks I’m projecting. My sister Sierra thinks I’m having a mental breakdown. My therapist, yes, I have a therapist, what did you expect after almost being trafficked, thinks I’m fixating on a traumatic event. But I know what I know.
I’m staring at his door through my peephole. Which is definitely not creepy. Definitely not stalker behavior. I’m just… concerned.
His door opens. I jerk back from the peephole. Wait ten seconds. Look again. He’s gone.
I should let this go. Should accept that maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he just looks similar. Maybe I want it to be him so badly that I’m seeing what I want to see. But then I hear his footsteps in the hallway. That same measured rhythm. And I know.
I open my door. Pretend I’m just leaving.
“Oh, hey Aaron.”
He stops. “Willa. Hi.”
“Heading out?”
“Grocery store run.”
“Same. Want to share a ride? I can show you where the good store is.”
I see the hesitation in his eyes.
“I don’t want to impose—”
“You’re not. Come on. It’ll be fun. Neighborly bonding.”
He has no good reason to say no. And I’m counting on it.
“Okay. Sure.”
Victory.
We take my car. He’s quiet. Tense. I make small talk.
“So, security consultant. That sounds interesting.”
“It is.”
“What kind of security?”
“Corporate. Threat assessment. Risk management.”
“Ever work with law enforcement?”
His jaw tightens. Just slightly. Most people wouldn’t notice. But I’m watching for it.
“Sometimes. On contract basis.”
“FBI?”
“Occasionally.”
Gotcha.
“Must be dangerous work.”
“Not usually. Mostly just paperwork and analysis.”
“But you can handle yourself. If it came to it.”
He looks at me. Really looks.
“Why are you asking?”
“Just curious. You move like someone with training. Military? Police?”
“Marines. Long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Ten years.”
The timeline works. He’d be thirty-two now. Twenty-two when he got out. Plenty of time to join the FBI. Work undercover. Take down a trafficking ring. Fake his death.
“What about you?” he asks, deflecting. “How long have you been teaching?”
“Three years. Since I graduated.”
“You like it?”
“I love it. Teenagers are exhausting but honest. They don’t pretend to be someone they’re not.”
I watch his reaction. Nothing. Good poker face.
We shop in silence. He buys bachelor food. Frozen dinners. Protein bars. Coffee. I buy fresh vegetables. Pasta. Wine.
“You cook?” he asks.
“When I have time. You?”
“Not really.”
“I could teach you sometime. If you want.”
“That’s okay.”
“The offer stands.”
We check out, drive back. He carries both our groceries upstairs even though I insist I can carry mine.
“I’ve got it.”
Protective. Just like three years ago.
At my door, he sets down my bags.
“Thanks for showing me the store.”
“Anytime.”
He turns to go.
“Aaron?”
He stops.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something? And will you be honest with me?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Have we really never met before?”
Silence. Long and heavy.
“No, Willa. We haven’t.”
He’s lying. I can see it in his eyes. In the way he won’t quite look at me. In the tension in his shoulders.
“Okay.”
“Why do you keep asking?”
“Because you remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“Someone important.”
“I’m sorry. But I’m not him.”
He goes into his apartment. Closes the door. Leaves me standing in the hallway.
I’m not crazy. He IS him. But why won’t he admit it?
That night, I google everything. “FBI agent disappeared 2022.” “Witness protection.” “Domenico crime family.”
And I find it. A news article from three years ago. “FBI Agent Killed in Undercover Operation.” The name is redacted. But the details match. Agent working undercover on human trafficking ring. Connected to Domenico organized crime family. Agent killed during raid. Closed casket funeral. No photos.
This is him.
Aaron Stone doesn’t exist. Not really. The LinkedIn is fake. The background is thin. The history is manufactured. He’s in witness protection. And he’s living next door to me.
Why?
Unless… unless I’m in danger. Unless the Domenico family is looking for me. Unless the men who tried to take me three years ago are coming back.
My blood runs cold.
I check the news. Search for the men who attacked me. Find their names in old court records. Marco Rizzuto. Vincent Testa. Both sentenced to five years. Both released… three months ago. Early release for good behavior.
They’re out.
And “Aaron Stone” moved in next door two months ago.
He’s here to protect me.
The realization hits like a truck.
He’s not hiding from me. He’s hiding me. Watching me. Keeping me safe. Just like three years ago.
I should be scared. Should be angry that the FBI didn’t tell me. Should be worried about why I need protection.
But all I feel is relief.
Because he came back. My savior came back.
And this time, I’m not letting him disappear.
END OF CHAPTER 4
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