Chapter 3 #2
Someone who knows what they’re doing never crosses open ground.
They plan their approach before they ever step onto the property.
Stick close to the structure. Follow the roof runoff where the snow’s already disturbed.
Use wind-scoured patches where nothing settles long enough to hold a print.
Short steps. Controlled weight. No heel strikes. No rush.
That kind of movement isn’t instinct. It’s learned. Repetition drilled into muscle memory until it becomes automatic.
And if there were tracks, they wouldn’t stay long. A branch dragged lightly on the way out. Walking back over your own prints. Timing the exit while snow’s still falling so nature finishes the cleanup.
Calm people think that way. Patient ones.
I lean back in the chair and rub at the base of my neck, already knowing sleep isn’t happening tonight.
I packed my ESV travel Bible, so I reach for it and scan until I find what I need.
I trace my finger over the text, reading aloud like I always do when I need the words to clear away the fog and the doubt.
“Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle; He is my steadfast love and my fortress, my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield and He in whom I take refuge, who subdues peoples under me.”
I close the book and exhale slowly.
Tomorrow, we go back to Ava’s home.
It's time to see just how good this guy really is.
Ava
Morning creeps in through the thin, gray curtains far too slowly. I wake the way I’ve been waking for months now—instantly on edge, feeling as though something heavy and invisible is crushing my chest.
Anxiety.
It’s a constant, low-level hum, a pervasive fear of what might be waiting for me when I step outside.
What Reagan will have done next. My muscles ache from tension, and what little sleep I achieved was fraught with thoughts of my mother, and the impossible task of trying to carry on with my normal routine while Silas is here, effectively turning my life into a strategic maneuver.
I lie in the lumpy, unfamiliar bed for a while, taking slow, rhythmic breaths, trying to force myself to think logically and not out of fear or raw emotion.
Silas is competent, capable, and trustworthy.
There’s a very good chance that just his presence will be enough to deter Reagan.
As I finally pull myself out from under the covers, the cold air of the room bites into my skin, making the hair on my arms rise.
When I peek out the window, fresh, thick snow covers everything in the parking lot.
My car, the two pickups at the far end, and the dumpster near the stairwell are all blanketed in white.
No traffic is moving, no one is up and about yet, and the motel looks even more depressing in the unforgiving daylight.
I close my eyes, exhale, and walk across the threadbare carpet to the bathroom. I shower and dress quickly, leaving my phone within reach—out of habit, out of necessity.
My thoughts stack up fast, crowding each other, competing for space until I force them into a semblance of order.
Denver was supposed to buy me space. Distance.
Time to breathe. A conference badge and a hotel room full of strangers were supposed to be proof that he wasn’t stopping my life from continuing, that he hadn't won.
Instead, he waited.
A light knock at the door adjoining my room to Silas’s makes my heart rate jump along with my ever-fraying nerves.
Breathe, Ava.
I twist the lock and tentatively open the door a crack, my entire body heaving a silent, mental sigh of relief when I find Silas standing there, fully dressed and drinking a steaming cup, silently appraising me.
In the early, filtered light, he looks different somehow. Softer. Less like the rigid machine he’s been since we arrived, and more like a man.
His head tilts, his eyes narrowing in a slight squint as his fingers tighten around the mug. “Morning.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly running dry. “Morning.”
He shifts his weight, almost as if he’s unsure of what to say, or perhaps just uncertain of how much space to occupy. “Are you ready to go back to your house to pick up a few things?”
My head moves involuntarily, a sharp, sudden motion. “A few things?”
He nods. “You can’t stay there alone until he’s caught.”
It’s nothing the police haven’t already told me, but hearing him confirm it somehow carries significantly more authority. It sounds like a directive, not a suggestion.
“I can’t hide either,” I argue, though my voice lacks conviction.
Silas’s eye twitches, a faint flicker of frustration. “This won’t be forever.”
He sounds so confident. So profoundly sure of himself. And I so desperately want to believe him that he doesn't have to say another word.
I’m already reaching for my coat.
Silas
Last night, the mansion was just an imposing silhouette. This morning, under the stark light of a gray winter day, the scale of it is a tactical disaster. Four full levels of stone and glass. Sixteen thousand square feet of blind spots.
As we walk, Ava gestures toward the neighboring estates—shrouded in privacy hedges and high stone walls—explaining the history of the block, the quiet prestige of Guilford, and how the neighbors mostly keep to themselves.
To her, it’s a community. To me, it’s an acre and a half of unmonitored perimeter.
She reaches the path and taps my arm, her voice shifting to a warning. “Watch out for the loose tile.”
I don’t sidestep it. I crouch, pressing my fingers into the stone. It doesn't shift. I lean in closer, squinting. The grout along the edge is a shade lighter than the rest—clean, smoothed, and reset with a precision that borders on surgical. No chips. No cracks.
I straighten, my jaw locking. “Do you have a handyman?”
Her eyes fix on the tile, her breath hitching as the "neighborly" tone vanishes. “Earl… but he said he’d get to it in the spring.”
The realization is a cold weight in my gut. He was back. Working in the dark.
And no one saw him.
I grip her by the elbow and steer her toward the front door. "Inside. Now."
Entering the house only makes the feeling worse.
Sixteen thousand square feet is too much vertical separation—a labyrinth of corridors that vanish into stairwells.
If I’m with her on one floor, the other three might as well be enemy territory.
One man can’t patrol an acre and a half of dense landscaping and still keep eyes on the asset.
The grounds are a sieve. Trees, dark corners, and long fence lines mean someone could watch this place for days without ever being seen. There are too many doors. Front, back, conservatory, basement—every extra entrance’s a problem I can’t stand in front of when things go sideways.
I follow Ava up the winding staircase, close enough to cover her, far enough not to crowd her. Old houses don't just hold secrets; they amplify mistakes.
My pace adjusts. I take the inside line, putting my body between her and the shadows of the landing above.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” I ask.
Ava nods, her mind already elsewhere. “Go ahead. There’s not a lot to see on the top floors.”
That’s exactly why I take the second floor first.
I clear the rooms in conditioned reflex—handle, hinge, corner. The guest rooms are tombs of undisturbed dust and cedar-scented silence. The bathroom window’s been painted shut, the seal intact.
I pause at the top of the staircase. Below me, a drawer closes. Ava. She’s still packing, completely oblivious.
I reach the third floor, my lungs tightening in the thin, stagnant air.
It smells of mothballs and funeral parlors—rolled carpets and coats sealed in plastic like specimens.
I don't just enter the final room; I shoulder the door open, watching the gray afternoon light slice across a stripped mattress.
I move through the ritual: checking the corners, the mouth of the closet, the stagnant shadows behind the door. I’m already halfway to the hallway, ready to write the room off, when the light shifts. A metallic glint sparks from the floorboards—a sharp, cold needle of silver that stops me mid-step.
I don't breathe as I crouch. The screws on the A/C unit are too clean—no paint chips, no stripped edges. This hasn't been serviced; it’s been used. On the floor, the dust’s been swept into a faint, telltale arc where the vent’s been swung open, again and again.
I look up. The window above the unit offers a long, unobstructed sightline of the driveway. But the vent angle doesn't point outside. It points down.
A straight shot through the floorboards.
Someone’s been watching her sleep.
I stay crouched by the vent, my pulse a heavy thrum in my fingertips. I don’t want to move. If I stand up, if I walk down those stairs and tell her what I’ve found, the world changes.
I look through the slats one more time. The angle’s perfect. It’s surgical. Whoever did this didn’t just want to see her; they wanted to own the view of her at her most vulnerable.
I drag in a breath and push back from the vent.
There’s no putting this off.
I find Ava standing by the bed, a stack of sweaters in her arms, looking at a framed photo she hasn’t packed yet.
“Ava,” I say. My voice is too rough, even to my own ears.
She doesn't look up at first. “Did you find more dust? I told you, the top floors are a graveyard.”
“I need you to put the clothes down,” I say.
She turns, her brow furrowing as she takes in my face. The sweaters slide a half-inch in her grip.
I struggle with the words. I’ve delivered death notices to families of fallen soldiers, and this feels worse. This is a different kind of casualty. “Someone’s been inside the house.”
The color doesn't just leave her face; it’s like a light’s been toggled off. “Inside? You mean the alarm—”
“They bypassed it,” I cut in, stepping closer but keeping my hands visible. I don’t want to spook her, but I need her to hear me. “There’s a vantage point in the third-floor guest room. The A/C vent's been modified. It’s got a direct line of sight into this room.”
I can’t bring myself to say it out loud—what he’s been watching. When she thought she was alone. When she wasn’t.
She doesn't even gasp. She just stands there, her fingers tightening on the wool of the sweaters until her knuckles turn a ghostly white. Her eyes roam the ceiling, the corners, the floorboards, like she’s seeing the house for the first time.
“Look at me.” I wait until her eyes lock onto mine. They’re wide, glassed over with a shock that’s still settling in. “Coat. Keys. Phone. Nothing else matters. We’re leaving.”
She nods, a sharp, jerky motion. “My mother,” she says, her voice suddenly flat. “I have to go to my mother.”
“I’ll call the police when we get there,” I say, already guiding her toward the door.
As we descend the stairs, she relays the directions to Greenfield Memory Care, then falls silent as we exit and climb into the car.
My own thoughts battering at me, I keep my eyes on the mirrors, checking every tail, every vehicle that lingers too long at a red light.
Beside me, Ava’s hands are folded in her lap, perfectly still, but her chest is heaving in a rhythm that tells me she’s counting her breaths just to keep from screaming.
She must be replaying the violation—every night she crawled into bed, every time she undressed—wondering if he was there.
Watching.
By the time we pull into the brick-lined lot of the memory care center, Ava doesn't wait for me to open the door. She’s out and moving toward the entrance before I’ve even killed the engine.