Chapter 42 Kael
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The packet hits my phone before morning skate even starts.
I don’t open it on the bench. Not in front of her. Not with Finn leaning against the glass and Atlas drilling holes in passing players just by staring.
I pocket the phone and wait.
Practice is a ghost version of a normal session.
The boys go through the motions—passing drills, positional work, battle corners—but everyone’s eyes flick to Wren more than they should.
Finn catches every glance she throws at her clipboard.
Atlas never takes his back off the lane closest to her.
Even the rookies feel the shift in the air.
I blow the whistle harder than necessary to break a scrum in front of the crease.
“Reset,” I bark. “Again.”
Bodies scatter. Sticks reset. Finn skates by the boards and taps the glass twice where she stands—his new habit, a signal that says I see you, I’m here, it’s okay.
Normally I’d tell him to stop skating to the wrong spots. Today I don’t.
After the final rep, I skate to center ice and tap my stick for everyone to gather. “Good work,” I say, loud enough to fill the rink. “Hit the room.”
As they scatter, Finn peels away from the pack and makes a beeline for Wren, skates carving too sharply in his hurry. Atlas goes slower but reaches her first because he takes the shortest path every time.
“Need help with anything?” Finn asks her, breath fogging the glass.
She smiles, tired but real. “I’m fine. Go shower.”
Atlas doesn’t move. “You eat this morning?” he asks. The concern comes out like a threat. It always does with him.
She shakes her head. “Coffee.”
He grunts. Finn groans dramatically. “Coffee isn’t food, Wren, for the love of—”
“Finn,” I say.
He shuts up instantly.
“We’re meeting ops in five,” I tell both of them. “Locker room conference room.”
Their backs go straight.
Wren’s forehead creases. “Do I need to go?”
“Not yet,” I say. “We’ll talk after.”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying to trust that. I let myself look at her a second longer than I should—hair tucked behind one ear, cheeks pink from the cold inside the rink, fingers fidgeting along the edge of her clipboard.
“I’ll see you after,” I add, quiet enough only she hears.
Her eyes soften. “Okay.”
That’s all I need.
***
Finn walks ahead. Atlas falls in at my shoulder. Both are too quiet. Finn’s jaw works like he’s chewing through emotion. Atlas’s breath comes in tight drags, too controlled.
“You saw the packet hit your phone,” Atlas mutters.
“Yeah.”
Finn kicks a puck off the wall as we pass, sending it echoing down the empty stretch of hallway. “What’s it say?”
“Didn’t open it yet.”
Finn stares at me like I sprouted horns. “You didn’t—what? You’ve had it for twenty minutes.”
“I wasn’t going to open it in front of her,” I say, steady.
Atlas clears his throat. “Good.”
Finn’s shoulders drop half an inch. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
I push open the door to the conference room. Two members of ops—Santos and Leung—sit waiting with a laptop and a printed folder.
“Morning, Captain,” Santos says. “We pulled everything you asked for.”
I nod once. Atlas takes the seat to my left. Finn leans on the wall behind me like he’s incapable of sitting still.
“Show me 118,” I say.
Leung flips open the laptop. “This is the first still we caught.” She enlarges the frame.
I go very still.
It’s exactly what Wren described:
· A man
· Standing completely still
· Facing the bench
· Not watching the ice
Cap low. Collar up. Hands in pockets. A silhouette, not a face.
“Show me the movement before and after.”
She scrubs. Ten seconds back. Fifteen. The figure steps into frame from the aisle. Pauses. Looks directly toward the bench.
Toward her.
A heat crawls up my spine, slow and controlled.
“Zoom?” I ask.
Leung tries. The pixels smear. The resolution turns to grainy blocks of shadow and light.
Finn curses under his breath. Atlas’s jaw twitches like he’s trying not to grind his teeth down.
“Show me the next angle,” I say.
Santos switches to a camera positioned behind the section. We see the back of the man’s head. He leans slightly forward—intentional, not casual.
“Time stamp?” I ask.
“19:12, second period,” Santos says.
The exact moment Wren’s voice went thin in the tunnel. The exact moment Atlas’s whole body went rigid. The exact moment Finn stopped mid-joke.
“Run the exit footage,” I say.
They switch to the corridor cams. People stream out of the section at the horn. Excited. Loud. Moving together.
But the man in the dark coat?
Gone.
Not in the exit corridor.
Not in the concourse.
Not picked up on any auxiliary camera.
“Where is he?” Finn asks, tension bleeding into his voice.
“We’ve checked all major exit points,” Santos says. “He didn’t use the main, staff, or disabled assist exits.”
“That’s not possible,” Finn snaps.
“It is,” I say quietly. “If he moved before the horn.”
Santos nods. “He disappeared from the section twenty-two seconds before the period ended.”
Atlas crosses his arms, muscles ticking like a countdown. “So either he was never physically there and we caught a shadow of someone else—”
“Or he knew the blind spots,” I finish.
Both ops agents glance at each other. Leung clears her throat.
“Captain, someone familiar with standard arena design could predict which cameras lag a frame under certain lighting conditions. Or knew that the concourse camera near 118 was half-obstructed by a vendor banner until we fixed it last month.”
Someone with planning.
Someone persuasive.
Someone with patience.
Someone like Adrian Frost.
I say his name silently. Never out loud. Not yet.
“Run it again,” I say.
We watch the clip four more times. My eyes burn each time the man turns toward the bench. Each time he stands still while thousands around him move. Each time he vanishes without a trace.
Finn breaks the silence. “We tell her.”
“Not yet,” I say.
Atlas turns his head sharply. “Why not?”
“She slept last night,” I say. “For the first time in weeks. If we tell her now—before we confirm anything concrete—we give her fear instead of facts.”
Atlas narrows his eyes. “She’s not fragile.”
“I didn’t say she was,” I reply steadily. “I said she deserves precision. Not guesses.”
Finn exhales, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. Yeah. Precision.”
Santos closes the laptop. “We’ll keep digging on the back end. Run facial approximations and pattern movement.”
“Good.” I stand. “Flag anything unusual. Anything.”
As we step into the hallway, Finn rounds on me. “We’re telling her today, right?”
“Yes.”
Atlas stops. “After practice?”
“After footage review,” I say. “With all three of us there.”
They both accept that. Finn touches a locker as we pass, like he needs something solid under his palm before he cracks apart. Atlas walks like a storm trying not to break.
At the end of the hall, I stop.
“Listen to me,” I say quietly.
Both turn.
“This isn’t guesswork anymore. Someone watched her. Someone left when he knew the crowd would cover it. Someone understands cameras and blind spots.”
They both go still.
“So we tighten our lines,” I continue. “We move around her with intention. We keep eyes on exits. We rotate who walks her to the car. We don’t let her go home alone tonight.”
Finn nods. “Obviously.”
Atlas’s voice is a low vibration. “She comes home with us.”
I glance his way.
“Not Kael’s house,” he clarifies. “Ours. Wherever she chooses.”
Finn exhales like he’d been holding that suggestion back.
I nod. “Yes.”
Atlas looks relieved in the smallest, sharpest way—like he just won a battle against himself.
We return to the main corridor. Players mill around. Trainers sharpen skates. The smell of sweat and rubber fills the air.
Wren is at the cart, taping a player’s wrist. Her focus is steady. Her shoulders are down. The panic hasn’t crept back in yet.
Atlas slows. Finn’s breath stumbles.
I walk toward her first.
She glances up, and I watch the moment she relaxes because she sees us. The way her face softens. The way her breath deepens. The way her hands stop trembling.
“Practice went well,” she says.
“It did,” I answer. “You hungry?”
She blinks. “A little.”
Finn brightens instantly. “Perfect. Let’s get lunch.”
Atlas murmurs, “I’ll drive.”
She looks between us—and for the first time, I see wonder instead of hesitation.
I imagine telling her what we found.
I imagine how her face will fall.
I imagine the fear crawling back up her spine.
Not yet.
Not until I can give her something besides shadows.
My phone buzzes again.
OPS: FACE PARTIAL MATCH FOUND. POSSIBLE SUBJECT ID.
My blood runs cold.
Later.
Tell her later.
With all of us there.
“Let’s go,” I say softly.
She nods.
And we move as one.