CHAPTER 2
Timothy
I hear her moving around on the other side of the wall.
Footsteps. Quick, uneven. The scrape of a chair being pulled out, then pushed back in. A cabinet opening and slamming shut. Another one. She's checking something. Searching for something, maybe, or just burning off adrenaline.
I know that feeling. The need to move after your system has been flooded with fight-or-flight chemicals. The inability to sit still when your brain is cataloging threats and running worst-case scenarios on a loop.
I'm doing the same thing.
I drop my keys on the counter and move to the window that overlooks the parking lot.
The sixth floor gives me a decent view of the entrance, the rows of cars, the street beyond.
The black Ram isn’t here, but I scan anyway.
Force of habit. The lot is quiet. A few residents coming and going. Nothing out of place.
But my gut is telling me something is wrong.
I've learned to trust that feeling. It kept me alive through three deployments to Afghanistan and more operations than I can count. And right now, it's screaming that the woman on the other side of this wall is in trouble.
Real trouble. Not the kind that goes away on its own.
I move away from the window and open my laptop on the kitchen counter.
It takes less than five minutes to pull up the property records for the building.
Carla Alexander moved in eight months ago.
Paid first and last month's rent in cash according to the landlord's records, which I have access to through a contact who owed me a favor.
No lease before this one that I can find. No previous address. It's like she appeared out of thin air eight months ago.
I try social media next. Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn. Nothing. No profiles, no photos, no digital footprint at all.
Someone who doesn’t want to be found.
The footsteps stop on the other side of the wall. I hear water running. Then nothing.
I should let this go. Mind my own business. She made it clear she can take care of herself, and I have no reason to think otherwise. She's former military. I'd bet my truck on it. The way she moves, the way she acted in the parking lot. She's been trained.
But training only gets you so far when someone is hunting you.
And I saw her face when she thought that guy in the Ram was someone specific. That was not just caution. That was terror.
I close the laptop and lean against the counter, staring at the wall between our apartments.
Who are you running from, Carla?
My phone buzzes. Text from my buddy Vincent.
You settled in yet or still unpacking?
Settled. Job starts next week.
Good. Let me know if you need anything. And stay out of trouble.
I almost laugh. Vincent knows me too well. Trouble has a way of finding me even when I'm trying to avoid it.
Or maybe I go looking for it.
Always do.
Liar. Call me if you need backup.
I just might have to do that. I set the phone down and scrub a hand over my face.
I've been out of the Army for six months.
Retired at thirty-three after taking shrapnel to the leg in Kandahar.
The wound healed, but the limp did not go away.
Not enough to disqualify me from service, but enough that I knew my days of running operations were numbered.
So I got out before they could force me out.
I moved to this town in western Virginia because it was quiet. Because nobody knew me here. Because I needed space to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with the rest of my life now that I wasn’t a Ranger anymore.
I've been here two weeks, and I have spent most of that time staring at the wall and listening to my neighbor pace at three in the morning.
The security consulting job starts next week. It's decent money, and it'll keep me busy. But it's not the same. Nothing is the same.
Except the instincts.
Those have not gone anywhere.
And right now, every instinct I have is telling me that Carla is in danger.
I hear her television turn on through the wall. Volume low. Some crime show, from the sound of it. She's trying to distract herself.
I know that trick too. It doesn’t work.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto the couch, but I don’t turn on my own television. I just sit there in the quiet, listening.
She doesn’t move for a long time. The television drones on. I can hear the faint murmur of voices, the occasional swell of music.
Then, around eight o'clock, I hear her get up. Footsteps moving toward the door. The locks turning. All three of them.
Is she leaving?
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved. I cross to my door and look through the peephole.
She's not leaving. She's standing in her doorway, looking up and down the hall. Checking. Making sure no one is out here.
After a moment, she steps back inside and closes the door. The locks slide back into place. One. Two. Three.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I've known this woman for two weeks. Spoken maybe ten words to her before today. And now I'm standing at my door like some kind of stalker, watching her through the peephole.
But I can still see the look in her eyes in that parking lot.
Someone hurt her.
Or someone is trying to.
And I've never been good at walking away from that.
I go back to the couch and finish my beer, but I don’t relax. I'm listening. Waiting.
Around midnight, I hear her moving again. Pacing. The familiar pattern of footsteps that I've heard every night since I moved in. Back and forth across her living room. Twelve steps one way. Twelve steps back.
She's not sleeping.
Neither am I.
I get up and move to the window again, scanning the parking lot. Nothing. No black Ram. No suspicious vehicles. Just the usual lineup of beaters and sedans that belong to the other tenants.
But I'm not convinced.
Whoever was watching her today might come back. And if he does, I'll be ready.
I grab my phone and pull up the contact for an old buddy who works in private security now.
Jonah. Good guy. Owes me a favor after I pulled his ass out of a firefight in Helmand.
I shouldn't be doing this. She's got a right to privacy, to her secrets.
But someone's hunting her, and I need to know what I'm dealing with.
Need a favor. Can you run a plate for me?
Sure. What's up?
North Carolina plate. Black Dodge Ram. Tinted windows. Need to know who owns it.
You in trouble?
Not me. But someone might be.
Send me the plate number when you get it. I'll see what I can find.
Thanks.
I text him the plate number I jotted down when I noticed the guy in the Ram watching Carla.
The pacing stops on the other side of the wall. I hear the television turn off. The creak of her bed as she lies down.
I should do the same. Get some sleep. Stop obsessing over a woman I barely know.
But I don’t move.
I stay at the window, watching the parking lot, until the sky starts to lighten with the first hint of dawn.
Because if someone is coming for her, they're going to have to go through me first.