Chapter 35
Seth
Travis tracked Knox the same way he tracks everything else, by following the smallest digital trail until it led exactly where he needed it to.
A burner phone tied to a shell company.
The shell company tied to a trust.
The trust tied to old Portland money that likes to pretend it has nothing to do with what happened in that manor.
Offshore accounts bleed into family foundations. Property records surface under alternate spellings. A name that had been scrubbed from one system shows up buried in another.
Knox thinks it is gone.
Thinks the Manor is noise that will fade if he waits long enough.
He's wrong.
It leads to a house outside Portland and a routine he assumes no one is watching.
That is all we need.
We don’t rush it.
Tonight, I train Brooke to watch people closely, to pick apart their habits, their blind spots, so she knows exactly when to strike.
We sit in the car and watch. Rain streaks the windshield in uneven sheets, warping the neon from the club sign into bleeding red and blue smears. The wipers drag back and forth in slow rhythm, never fully clearing the view.
Brooke sits in the passenger seat, hood up, seat reclined just enough to keep her face in shadow. Her eyes never leave the entrance.
She reaches into the center console and pulls out the bag of peach rings.
She opens them without looking away from the door. The plastic crinkles softly in the dark. She tosses one in her mouth and hands me one. We share the bag between us, the sour dust catching on our tongues while we watch a man who thinks he is untouchable step into the open like he owns the night.
Two men trail behind him, laughing at something he has said like he rehearsed it. He wears a dark coat open at the front, expensive and useless in the rain, shirt half unbuttoned like he wants to be looked at.
Brooke goes still beside me.
“That’s him,” she murmurs.
Knox pauses under the awning long enough to let someone light his cigarette.
“Look at him,” I tell her quietly.
Brooke’s eyes track every inch.
“See how he stands.”
Knox exhales smoke and turns his back to the street completely. The club door behind him. Open sidewalk in front. No check. No sweep. No glance in the glass of the parked cars.
“He doesn’t rush,” I point out. “He doesn’t look. He doesn’t think he has to.”
Brooke’s hands curl slowly against her thighs.
“He never hunted anyone,” I continue. “He had people brought to him. Delivered. Tied up. Begging. He thinks violence is something that happens on a stage.”
Knox laughs again, too loud, and throws his head back.
“He likes spectacle,” I mutter. “Noise. Screaming. Cameras. Witnesses.”
A town car rolls up to the curb.
Knox doesn’t check the driver. Doesn’t scan the reflection in the window. Doesn’t even glance at the street before stepping down off the curb.
“He thinks if something’s coming for him, it’ll look obvious,” I explain. “Masked. Armed. Loud. He doesn’t think it’ll look like this.”
Brooke doesn’t move.
“He doesn’t believe in quiet,” I add. “He believes in performance.”
Knox takes one last drag of his cigarette and flicks it into the street without looking. Open back exposed. Head tilted toward his phone.
“Watch his hands.”
She does.
“He texts while he walks. Eyes drop. Chin dips. His whole body softens. That’s when he’s least aware.”
Knox’s thumb moves over his screen as he steps toward the car. The driver gets out to open the door. Knox doesn’t acknowledge him. Just keeps typing.
“He expects protection,” I tell her. “He expects people between him and anything ugly. That’s what money buys.”
The door opens.
Knox ducks inside without ever turning his head.
“That’s ego,” I say. “Not confidence.”
The door shuts.
The car pulls into traffic.
Brooke’s breathing shifts.
“You don’t go for him when he’s drunk and loud,” I warn. “You don’t go for him when he’s surrounded by an audience.”
I turn my head just enough to look at her.
“You take him when he thinks the show’s over.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Between door and car,” I continue. “Between hallway and room. Between party and bed. Those seconds when he thinks he’s safe.”
The taillights disappear down the block.
Brooke stays quiet, absorbing it.
I lean back into my seat.
“Tonight, you don’t touch him,” I tell her. “You learn him.”
“I want him scared.”
I nod once.
“Oh he will be.”
The second night, we didn't stay in the car.
We go inside.
The lounge feels exclusive and predatory at the same time. Black velvet booths curve along the walls, pulling people into the shadows. Gold trim catches the low light and throws it back in muted flashes. The air hangs thick with perfume, sweat, and expensive liquor.
"Kill4Me" plays through the speakers. Bass rolls through the floor in slow, heavy pulses. It feels like a second heartbeat under my boots.
We slip in through a side entrance Beau has already compromised.
Nobody notices us.
They never do when they’re staring at themselves in mirrored walls and camera phones.
Knox is in VIP, surrounded by bottle service with three bottles already half gone. A clean white line stretches across the glass table in front of him. Two women drape over his body, one straddling his thigh while the other leans into his ear, laughing like she’s being paid to.
His head tips back when he laughs.
Brooke goes rigid beside me.
I step in behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her back.
“He doesn’t recognize you,” I murmur near her ear. “But he’ll remember what he did to you.”
Her jaw tightens. I feel the tension travel through her shoulder.
We stay in the shadows near a structural column just outside the spill of VIP light.
We don't sit, order drinks, or speak to anyone.
Knox sprawls across the couch with one arm thrown over the backrest as if the entire club belongs to him.
The girl on his lap drags her fingers through his hair while he bends forward and takes a line straight off the glass table.
He doesn't bother wiping his nose. He doesn't even glance around the room.
He has no reason to.
I feel Brooke tense.
“That’s your window,” I say quietly.
She doesn't answer.
“Drugs make him sloppy,” I continue. “Alcohol makes him loud. Both make him predictable.”
Knox’s head snaps up when someone approaches the table. For half a second, his eyes sweep toward the entrance of the VIP section.
Brooke is already watching him. Every movement. Every habit.
I shift closer behind her.
“Tell me what you see.”
“He never looks behind him.”
Good.
“He checks the doors,” she adds, her eyes fixed on him, “but not the corners.”
Better.
“He keeps his back to the wall,” she says. “But only when he’s sober.”
I nod.
“That’s instinct fighting ego. Ego usually wins.”
Knox grabs his phone from the table. The girl slides off his lap. He pushes himself up from the couch and heads toward the restroom. He starts typing as he walks.
He never looks over his shoulder. He never feels us in the room.
Brooke’s fingers tighten around my forearm.
“He doesn’t think anyone followed him out of that manor,” she whispers.
“No,” I reply. “He thinks you’re dead.”
Her breathing sharpens. The softness leaves her eyes.
“And what do we do with men who believe that?” I ask quietly.
“We let them feel safe.”
I lean closer, my mouth brushing her temple.
“Exactly,” I murmur. “Because the moment a man feels safe… is the moment he dies.”