The Anonymous Warning

Crash!

A flowerpot smashed onto the pavement behind me, shards slicing my ankle. Just a second slower, and it would've nailed my head—and probably cracked it open.

"Seriously? Who the hell's tossing crap from up there?" the old lady grumbled, shaking her head.

A minute ago, she'd almost tripped, and I'd grabbed her arm to steady her. That split-second reflex? It had saved me.

The old lady muttered that all the buildings around here had railings, designed to keep things from falling. Nothing was supposed to come crashing down—unless someone made it happen.

Her words sent a chill slicing through me.

I looked up at the high-rise towering overhead, sunlight stabbing into my eyes. Could someone really be trying to hurt me?

Then I remembered the text. That weird, cryptic warning: [Beware your family]. I'd checked the number—disconnected, a dead end. No clue who sent it or why.

My hand drifted to my belly, a quiet pat, like I was trying to reassure the baby.

When I got home, I told my husband, Scott Stuart, about it. He brushed it off. "Just a coincidence. Who would want to hurt you?"

I wasn't exactly a social butterfly. Over the past year, I'd quit my job to focus on getting ready for the baby. The number of people I talked to regularly could be counted on one hand.

A stranger wouldn't have a reason to hurt me. But what if it wasn't a stranger? What if it was someone I knew—someone close? Just like the text had warned?

Scott pulled me into his arms. "Alright, stop overthinking. Getting paranoid isn't good for you or the baby."

For the next few days, I barely left the house. The fear clung to me, and I found myself side-eyeing everyone.

When my best friend, Susan Grey, heard about what happened, she showed up at my door.

"Hey, is Scott not home?" she asked.

"He's out for now."

"I hit the store earlier and found the freshest chicken. Thought I'd make some soup for you," Susan said, heading straight for the kitchen, chicken in hand.

Susan and I had grown up together, practically sisters. We'd shared everything—no secrets, no lies. At least, that's what I'd believed.

"Lacey, can you grab my phone for me? It's digging into my side," Susan said, nodding toward her pocket as she prepped the ingredients.

"Sure," I said, pulling it out.

She smiled. "You should leave the kitchen soon. I'll call you when the soup's ready."

I stepped out, her phone still in my hand. A buzz stopped me mid-step.

Susan had gotten a message.

Instinctively, I tilted the screen to turn it off—but froze.

The sender's profile picture and username hit me like a slap.

Two short messages stared back at me:

[Stop pestering me.]

[Do you want me to call the cops?]

No contact name. But I didn't need one.

It was Scott.

His old account—the same one he used back in college, sliding into DMs and chasing after that campus hottie.

My stomach turned as I glanced back at Susan, her attention still on the chicken. My hands shook, but after a moment's hesitation, I moved to the corner and unlocked her phone.

The password hadn't changed. It was still my birthday.

The chat history stretched back to July 21 of last year—the exact time I'd quit my job to stay home.

Susan had made the first move, adding Scott and chasing after him aggressively. She wasn't subtle, and he wasn't strong enough to resist.

He cheated on me.

Every message was full of pet names—babe this, babe that. Most of it was the same, over and over, them planning to meet at their "usual spot."

But three months ago, something changed. The messages from Scott became infrequent. He told her I was pregnant, that he couldn't keep betraying me or the baby. He wanted to end it.

Could yesterday's flowerpot have been their doing?

The doubt grew, creeping through my thoughts like a shadow I couldn't shake.

I typed out a text to Scott: [I'm craving something sour. Can you buy me some lemons?]

He replied instantly, like he always did. Ever since I got pregnant, he never said no to anything I asked.