It was a gray California morning, the kind that feels off but you can’t say why. My one-year-old son, Jamie, was strapped in his stroller, his soft breaths fogging the plastic cover. He’d had a fever all night, and I was determined to get him to the doctor. Since my wife passed during childbirth, I’ve raised Jamie alone, doing my best to be both father and mother.
The bus screeched to a stop, and I hauled the stroller up, apologizing to the driver. At the next stop, an older woman boarded, draped in flowing skirts and jangling bangles. She hesitated near the driver, rummaging through a worn purse. “I don’t have enough for the fare,” she said, her tone embarrassed.
The driver scowled. “I’M NOT A CHARITY. IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE MONEY, YOU CAN WALK.” Her face reddened as she looked around, unsure. Without thinking, I handed over a couple of dollars. “I’ll cover it,” I said. She turned to me, her dark eyes intense. “Thank you,” she whispered and shuffled to the back.
As I exited, maneuvering Jamie’s stroller, she pressed a folded note into my hand. “You’ll need this,” she said softly. At the clinic, while Jamie dozed, I opened it, expecting some vague, fortune-teller mumbo jumbo. Instead, my stomach dropped as I read the words scrawled in jagged handwriting.
“DON’T GO HOME YET. SOMEONE IS WAITING.”
A chill ran down my spine. I glanced around the waiting room. Just a coincidence, right? But as much as I wanted to dismiss it, the pit in my stomach grew. Who was waiting at my house? And why did this woman warn me?
Jamie stirred, breaking my trance. I shoved the note into my pocket, determined to ignore it. The doctor saw us quickly, assuring me Jamie had a minor infection. “Antibiotics and rest,” he said. Relieved, I headed home, but as I neared my street, I hesitated. I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease.
I circled the block once, scanning my house. Everything seemed normal—until I noticed the black SUV parked down the road. My heart pounded. I had never seen that car before. And then, as if on cue, the back door opened slightly, just a crack. Someone was inside, watching.
Instead of going home, I pushed the stroller past my house, pretending not to notice. I needed time to think. I ducked into a nearby coffee shop, pretending to soothe Jamie while I gathered my thoughts. Could it be a debt collector? No, I had no outstanding loans. Maybe a scammer? Or… something worse?
The note burned in my pocket. Had the woman truly seen something? Or had I just let my imagination run wild? I debated calling the police, but what would I say? “Hi, a fortune teller told me not to go home, and now I see a car?” They’d laugh at me.
As I sat there, the door to the café chimed. A man walked in. He was tall, wearing a black jacket, and his eyes flicked around the room before landing on me. My blood ran cold. He was looking for someone. Looking for me.
I grabbed Jamie and slipped toward the back exit, my heart pounding. I couldn’t go home. Not yet. I needed answers. And I needed to find the woman who gave me the note.
The Search for the Fortune Teller
I wandered through the city, trying to retrace my steps. Where could she have gone? Fortune tellers usually worked in parks or markets, right? I decided to check a local flea market where I’d seen people like her before. Jamie had fallen asleep in the stroller, his tiny hands curled into fists.
The market was alive with vendors shouting their deals, the smell of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon filling the air. I scanned the booths until I spotted a small, makeshift tent covered in beads and tapestries. A sign read, Madame Lenora – Seer of Truths.
Taking a deep breath, I approached. A younger woman, no older than thirty, sat inside. “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m looking for an older woman, dressed in layers, wears bangles. I think she might be a fortune teller.”
The young woman’s face darkened. “You met my grandmother,” she said flatly. “What did she tell you?”
I hesitated before pulling out the note. She snatched it, her eyes widening. “She doesn’t write these often,” she whispered. “When she does… she’s never wrong.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Do you know what this means?”
She exhaled sharply. “Someone dangerous is after you.”
A Race Against Time
My hands trembled as I stepped out of the market. If she was right, then I had to keep moving. But I was exhausted, Jamie needed food, and I had no idea where to go. My best friend, Will, lived nearby. He owed me a favor. I called him, and thankfully, he picked up on the first ring.
“Dude, you sound out of breath,” Will said. “What’s up?”
“Long story. Can Jamie and I crash at your place?”
“Of course. You okay?”
“I’ll explain later.”
At Will’s apartment, I locked the door behind me, my body finally relaxing for the first time all day. Jamie nibbled on some crackers while Will handed me a beer. “Now,” he said, “tell me everything.”
As I finished explaining, he frowned. “So, some woman warned you, you saw a car, and now you’re on the run? Sounds like a bad movie.”
“I know,” I muttered. “But something about it feels real.”
Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. “You can’t hide forever.”
A wave of nausea hit me. I showed Will the message. His face paled. “Okay,” he said, “this just got real. We need a plan.”
Confronting the Truth
Will and I stayed up strategizing. Should we go to the police? Hire a private investigator? Call a lawyer? Finally, I decided. I needed to go back home and face whoever was waiting for me.
Armed with a baseball bat and a pocket knife, I left Jamie with Will and took an Uber home. The SUV was still there. My heart thundered as I stepped onto my porch. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
A man stood inside—tall, wearing a black suit, holding a folder. He looked startled to see me. “Mr. Daniels?” he asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m a private investigator. Your wife’s family has been looking for you.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“She left behind something… for Jamie.”
