30. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
Three days have passed since every camera inside the Gallagher estate went dark, and every morning I convince myself that today will be the day I finally let it go.
Every morning, I drive back to Grayline before anyone can question where I spent the night. I shower, change clothes, sit through whatever briefing Matt has scheduled, and pretend I care about cases that have nothing to do with the woman trapped behind the stone walls of Ronan Gallagher’s estate.
I answer when someone speaks to me. I contribute when Matt asks for my opinion. I even manage to insult Wheels twice before lunch yesterday, which apparently convinced him I was fine.
I’m not.
The hours between sunrise and sunset are spent searching for another weakness in the system Ronan rebuilt. I test every access point I can find, circling the estate digitally while trying not to acknowledge that I’m doing the same thing physically once darkness begins to settle.
Every evening, I come back.
Not because I expect to see her.
Not because I have a plan.
I return because driving away from the estate feels too much like leaving her alone inside it.
That is the explanation I refuse to give myself as I guide the SUV down the narrow service road bordering the Gallagher property for the third night in a row.
Instead, I tell myself the location gives me a stronger signal to Declan’s phone.
That monitoring from outside the estate reduces the chance of Ronan tracing the mirrored connection back to Grayline.
That being close enough to physically observe the security rotation is simply good operational practice.
They are all reasonable explanations.
None of them are the truth.
The truth is that I need to be near her.
Even if she doesn’t know I’m here.
Even if the only thing separating us is a fence, several acres of heavily monitored property, and one husband who has turned her home into a prison.
The sun has nearly disappeared by the time I ease between the same two pine trees I used the night before. The SUV fits into the narrow clearing with inches to spare, its dark paint disappearing beneath the thick canopy overhead.
I shut off the engine and sit for a moment while the cooling metal ticks quietly around me.
There is no reason to stay tonight.
I checked every exterior feed before leaving Grayline. Nothing unusual. No unexpected vehicles. No change in the guard rotation. Declan’s messages have been painfully routine.
Deliveries.
Shift changes.
Instructions to prevent the staff from interacting with Maeve unless necessary.
That last one had taken me nearly an hour to stop thinking about.
I should return to the office. Matt will notice eventually. Bullet probably already has.
Rachel definitely has.
She left two containers of food on my desk this afternoon without saying a word. One contained pasta. The other contained enough cookies to feed a small military unit, which means she either knows exactly what I’m doing or believes sugar can solve psychological collapse.
Statistically, she may not be wrong.
I reach for the door handle.
Then stop.
The house is less than half a mile beyond the trees. Close enough that I can see the faint glow of the upper windows through the branches when the wind moves them aside.
She is somewhere inside.
I release the handle and reach for the equipment in the back seat.
The routine has become embarrassingly efficient.
Laptop.
Portable battery.
Thermal monocular.
Encrypted receiver.
A thermos of coffee that stopped being hot around three this afternoon.
The folding chair Wheels shoved into my SUV yesterday after informing me that squatting in the dirt was “murder on the knees after thirty.”
He is thirty-two.
Apparently, he has accepted our decline more gracefully than I have.
I carry everything beyond the vehicle and set up beneath a cluster of pines where the ground is dry and the branches provide enough cover to hide the light from my screens.
The chair sinks slightly into the soil when I sit.
My back immediately thanks Wheels.
I will never tell him.
The laptop comes to life beneath my hands, and I begin loading the same collection of programs I’ve opened every evening since the feeds disappeared. A map of the Gallagher estate fills one side of the screen while Declan’s mirrored security application opens on the other.
The connection remains clean.
He still hasn’t discovered the vulnerability.
That should make me feel something resembling satisfaction. Instead, I stare at another list of movements that tells me everything about the estate except the one thing I need to know.
Whether Maeve is okay.
I haven’t seen her in three days.
Not through a camera.
Not through a reflection.
Not even as a shadow passing one of the exterior windows.
The last time I heard her voice, she was whispering goodbye into a microphone she believed no longer worked.
I wish we’d met.
I close my eyes as the memory moves through me with the same precision as a blade.
She had thanked me.
As though a few songs and ridiculous conversations were enough to deserve gratitude.
As though I hadn’t violated every boundary she had by entering her life without permission.
As though I hadn’t listened while she cried because hearing her pain felt better than knowing she was enduring it alone.
My fingers press into the edge of the laptop.
She thinks I let her go.
That may be the only thing keeping me here.
A notification appears before the monitoring software finishes loading.
I almost ignore it.
Declan receives dozens of messages every evening, most of them from guards confirming positions or staff requesting clearance for deliveries. Nothing has changed in three days.
Then I read the words.
Vehicle One prepared for departure at 1900.
I glance at the time in the corner of the screen.
6:52 p.m.
Another notification appears beneath the first.
Mrs. Gallagher accompanying principal. Follow vehicle staging beyond east drive.
Everything inside me goes still.
The forest continues around me. Insects buzz near the light of the screen. Wind moves through the branches overhead, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
I hear all of it without processing any of it.
Maeve is leaving the house.
For the first time in three days, she is going beyond the walls Ronan closed around her.
I read the message again, checking the sender, timestamp, and encryption even though there is no possibility I misunderstood it.
Mrs. Gallagher accompanying principal.
My hand hovers over the keyboard.
I don’t have a reason to open the camera.
The vehicles are leaving through the east drive. Declan’s phone will show me the route once the convoy moves. I can follow from a distance without risking exposure.
There is no operational value in seeing her walk from the house to the SUV.
I open the exterior feed anyway.
The estate’s east driveway fills the screen.
The image is clear despite the fading light, the camera mounted high enough on the corner of the house to capture the garage doors, the paved turnaround, and part of the road leading toward the gate.
Nothing moves.
The follow vehicle is already positioned beyond the camera’s range, exactly as the message indicated. One guard stands near the edge of the driveway, speaking into his radio while another checks the gate.
I shift the laptop closer. I tell myself I only need one look. Enough to know she is still there. Enough to know Ronan hasn’t taken the last three days and stripped away every part of her I recognize.
Then I’ll leave. The lie is almost convincing.
A light comes on inside the garage. My pulse changes before the door begins to rise.
The metal panels lift slowly, revealing the polished front bumper of a black SUV. Light spills across the driveway in a widening band, cutting through the gathering darkness.
The camera angle doesn’t provide a full view inside. Ronan designed the security system to monitor threats approaching the garage, not the people standing within it.
I know because I spent hours studying every blind spot on the property. At first, all I can see is the SUV.
Then a pair of shoes appears beside the passenger door. Small. Black. Heeled.
Maeve.
My lungs pull in a breath that doesn’t feel large enough.
She shifts slightly as the door continues to rise, and more of her comes into view. The hem of a dark green dress. Her hand folded over the strap of her purse. Her hair pinned neatly away from her face.
She is standing only a few hundred yards from me, and somehow the distance feels greater than when I watched her through a camera from Grayline.
I lean closer. She looks thinner. The change is subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but I have spent weeks learning every shift in her expression and posture.
The dress sits differently against her waist. Her shoulders curve inward instead of holding the straight, stubborn line I remember from the gala.
She isn’t smiling. I knew she wouldn’t be. It still hurts. Ronan steps into view.
He is facing her with his back partially turned toward the camera. One hand moves as he speaks, calm and measured, as though he is explaining something she should already understand.
Maeve remains still. Listening. The garage door finishes opening, but neither of them moves toward the SUV.
I increase the feed’s resolution and adjust the contrast, pulling more detail from the shadows. The image sharpens enough for me to see the tension in her fingers where they grip her purse.
Ronan speaks again. Longer this time.
She turns her head toward the open driveway, and for one impossible second, her gaze seems to move directly toward the camera.
Toward me. I know she can’t see me. The camera is too high. The woods are too dark. She has no reason to believe I’m anywhere near the estate. Still, my chest tightens.
Then she looks back at Ronan and says something. I can’t hear the words.
I should. I should have audio. I should have found a way back into the garage system. I should have installed another microphone while I had access to the house. I should have done a hundred things differently.
Maeve speaks again. This time, her posture changes. Her shoulders straighten. Her chin lifts. The woman standing beside the SUV no longer looks like the one who stepped into view moments ago.
Something moves through me that is too sharp to be relief. I recognize her.
There you are.
Ronan’s hand drops to his side. Maeve continues speaking. She gestures toward the house, then toward herself. The movement isn’t wild or uncontrolled. It is deliberate. Certain. She is telling him something he doesn’t want to hear.
My fingers tighten around the laptop. Part of me wants her to stop. Not because she is wrong. Because I know men like Ronan Gallagher. Control works until the person being controlled recognizes it. The moment she names what he has done, he has two choices.
Release her. Or tighten his grip.
Ronan steps closer. Maeve doesn’t move back.
A cold knot forms beneath my ribs. “Careful,” I murmur, even though she can’t hear me.
He says something. She answers immediately. Whatever she says makes him go completely still.
The change is so slight I might have missed it if I hadn’t spent weeks analyzing every movement he made around her. His shoulders lock. His head tilts. The hand at his side curls slowly into a fist.
Maeve takes one step toward the passenger door. Ronan catches her upper arm. The movement is quick enough that the camera blurs. Maeve’s entire body jerks.
I rise so abruptly the chair nearly overturns behind me.
Ronan’s hand remains wrapped around her arm. She looks down at it. Then back at him. My pulse pounds against the base of my skull as I reach for my phone.
I don’t call Matt. Not yet.
Maeve pulls her arm. Ronan doesn’t release her. Even through the grain of the camera feed, I see the moment something inside her changes.
She stops trying to ease away. She shoves him. Hard.
Ronan stumbles one step backward. My phone is already in my hand when he looks at her again.
I know what happens next before he moves. Ronan closes the distance between them. One hand catches her shoulder.
The other rises toward her throat. And the entire world narrows to the space between them.
The laptop slips from my hands. It hits the ground hard enough that the screen flashes once before disappearing beneath dead leaves. I don't stop to pick it up.
My phone is at my ear before I clear the first row of trees.
Matt answers before the second ring. "Skee?"
"I'm going in."
The pounding of my boots across the forest floor nearly drowns out his response. "What happened?"
A branch catches my shoulder, snapping backward as I push through another stand of pines. "He put his hands on her."
Silence. Not because he doesn't understand. Because he understands perfectly.
"Where are you?"
"East tree line."
Another few strides. The fence comes into view between the trees.
"I'll have everyone moving now," Matt says, his voice suddenly calm in the way it only becomes when everything has gone sideways. "Don't do this alone."
I don't answer immediately. "I'm not waiting."
"Keaton—"
I end the call.
The phone disappears into my pocket without breaking stride. Every second I spend talking is another second Ronan Gallagher is alone with Maeve. The chain-link fence rushes toward me.
I don't slow down.
One foot catches the support rail. My hands find the top. Momentum carries me over before gravity has the chance to argue. I hit the ground harder than I would've liked, my boots sliding through loose pine needles before I catch myself and keep running.
The garage. It couldn't be more than a hundred yards away. A hundred yards had never felt farther. My lungs burn, but I barely notice. All I can see is the last image frozen in my mind. Ronan's hand. Maeve's throat.
I don't know if she fought him. I don't know if he let go. I don't know if she's still standing. The uncertainty claws at my ribs harder than the sprint ever could.
Every decision I'd made over the last three days crashes into me all at once. I should've ignored Matt. I should've climbed that fence the first night. I should've broken into the house the moment she whispered goodbye through that bathroom microphone.
Discipline. Procedure. Evidence.
I'd told myself waiting was protecting her. Right now...It feels a hell of a lot like I abandoned her.
My hand instinctively reaches beneath my jacket, fingers wrapping around the grip of my pistol. Not because I want to use it. Because for the first time since this mission began...I have absolutely no idea what I'm running into.
The trees begin to thin. The stone wall of the garage comes into view through the branches. The overhead door is still open.
Thank God.
If it had closed...I force the thought away before it can finish.
Movement. The dark outline of the SUV. Two figures.
Maeve.
Everything inside me goes cold. Then I run faster.