2. Chapter 2
Kara
Idon’t sleep so much as wait for morning.
The hotel suite is beautiful in that polished, impersonal way expensive hotels always are, with its cream walls, dark wood furniture, and thick curtains that block out the Orlando skyline.
Sentinel Protective places a guard in the hallway outside my door after Daniel Mercer insists I not return home overnight, and I tell myself that should be enough to make my nervous system settle down. Tragically, it isn’t.
Like any new place, there are lots of unfamiliar noises.
Every little creak makes my eyes open. Every soft click from the air-conditioning makes my body stiffen beneath the sheets.
I lie there in a king-size bed that smells faintly of lavender, staring at the ceiling while my mind walks through my house again and again.
The missing knife and the open closet doors. My undergarments exposed to a stranger’s hands. The drawer of photographs disturbed by someone who had no reason to touch them.
By four-thirty in the morning, I stop pretending rest is going to happen.
I get up, pull on a hotel robe, and make coffee from the little machine near the wet bar, even though hotel-room coffee tastes horrible.
Then I stand at the window with the mug warming my hands and watch a city I’ve lived in for years blink awake beneath me.
Orlando looks normal from up here. Cars move along the streets. Delivery trucks back into alleys. Early commuters stop at traffic lights with their windows glowing blue from dashboard screens. Life goes on as if nothing happened. That bothers me because my life is not going on.
Instead, it’s paused somewhere between the moment my security company called and the moment I stood in my closet staring at proof that a stranger wanted pieces of me no burglar should care about.
My phone lights up on the table beside me just after six. It’s Vanessa. I answer before the second ring.
“Tell me you’re not at the house,” she says, no greeting, no easing in.
“I’m not at the house.”
“Good. Did you sleep?”
I look down into the coffee that tastes worse with every sip. “Define sleep.”
“Kara.”
“I closed my eyes a couple of times.”
“That is not sleeping.”
“It felt ambitious at the time.”
Her sigh crackles through the speaker, full of worry and familiarity. Vanessa can make a sigh feel like an entire lecture when she wants to. She has been doing it since culinary school, back when we both thought the worst disaster possible was a broken hollandaise during practical exams.
“Did you look at the rental?” she asks.
I glance at my laptop, still open on the desk with the Sunbreak Harbor listing. Seems I left it on the webpage, hoping it might be the hidden answer I need to this mess.
“I looked.”
“And?”
“And it’s beautiful.”
“That sounded like a complaint.”
“No, not a complaint. It’s just … I don’t know. It feels dramatic to run away to a beach house because somebody broke in.”
The silence on her end is brief but pointed.
“Somebody broke into your home, disabled your security system, stole one of your chef knives, and dug through your private photographs,” she says carefully. “Leaving for two weeks while your house is repaired is not dramatic. It is sane.”
I close my eyes because she’s right.
“I have meetings,” I say, though the protest feels weaker than it did last night. “I have brand calls, the cookbook review, and filming notes to approve.”
“You have a laptop, Wi-Fi, and an entire team that can survive without seeing your face in person for a few days.”
“They’ll panic.”
“They will adjust.”
“My publicist won’t love it.”
“Your publicist can spin anything. That’s why you pay her.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. “You are bossy before seven in the morning.”
“I become bossier when people I love are being stubborn and sleep-deprived.”
People I love. The words make my throat tighten, which is ridiculous because Vanessa says things like that all the time.
She is warm in ways I have never learned how to be.
She loves loudly, feeds aggressively, and worries without apology, as if taking care of people is the only way she knows how to keep them close.
I stare out at the pale light gathering over the city.
“I don’t want to be afraid of my own house,” I admit.
Her voice softens immediately. “I know.”
“It feels weak.”
“It isn’t weak to be shaken after being violated.”
“I keep thinking about the photos.”
“I know.”
“Why would someone look through those?”
Vanessa doesn’t answer right away, and that is answer enough. A knock sounds at the suite door before she can say anything else. My body reacts before my mind catches up, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the mug as I turn toward the sound.
“Ms. Stone?” a man’s voice calls from the hallway. “Daniel Mercer.”
“It’s the security guy,” I tell Vanessa.
“Put me on speaker. I want to hear what he says.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Kara.”
“I’ll call you back.”
“You better.”
I end the call and cross to the door, checking the peephole even though I already know Mercer is on the other side. He stands there in another dark security polo, tablet in one hand, expression calm but serious. I open the door just enough to let Mercer step inside.
“Good morning,” he says. “I’m sorry to disturb you this early.”
“I was already awake.”
“I wanted to update you in person,” he says. “My team did a more detailed exterior review overnight. Your primary panel will need replacement, and we’re recommending new smart locks, re-coded access points, additional cameras at the rear of the property, and an upgraded interior monitoring grid.”
It feels too early for so many technical words.
“How long?” I ask.
“Realistically? Several days for immediate repairs. Longer if you approve the full retrofit.”
Several days, possibly longer. My stomach tightens at the thought of returning to that house before every shadow has been checked and every lock has been changed.
“We can continue providing overnight coverage,” Mercer adds. “But I’m going to be direct with you. Until we know whether this was random or targeted, I don’t recommend you stay there alone.”
“I keep telling myself it had to be random,” I say.
Mercer’s expression stays professional, but the pause before he speaks tells me more than his answer does.
“Random intruders usually look for items with immediate resale value,” he says. “Electronics. Jewelry. Cash. Designer goods. This person left those things alone.”
“But took a knife.”
“And disturbed personal items.”
I look away because hearing him say it out loud makes my stomach turn all over again. It’s like the gravity does not sink in all at once. Mercer lowers his voice slightly, not patronizing me, just trying to keep things anxiety-free.
“Distance is not an overreaction, Ms. Stone. It gives us time to repair the property and review the footage without you trying to sleep in a place that no longer feels secure.”
I grip the coffee mug tighter. “My friend has a rental contact in Sunbreak Harbor.”
“That’s on the coast?”
“Barrier island. Quiet town, from what she said.”
“Good. Don’t announce it online. Don’t tag the location. Keep your travel plans limited to people you trust. If you decide to go, I’d also recommend letting your assistant and publicist know that all schedule details stay private until further notice.”
My mind immediately begins sorting through names, calendars, obligations, passwords, footage, deadlines.
The old Kara would already be making a spreadsheet.
The old Kara would turn fear into logistics because logistics can be controlled.
But my hands are still trembling around a cup of terrible coffee.
“I’ll call my assistant,” I say.
By eight, Talia has moved three meetings, rescheduled a brand lunch, and promised twice that the world will not implode if I approve cookbook edits from a beach cottage.
By nine, Vanessa has connected me with the owner of the Sunbreak Harbor rental, who is apparently delighted to have a last-minute booking from someone she recognizes but is gracious enough not to gush about it.
By ten-fifteen, I have rented a white coastal cottage called The Sandpiper for two weeks.
By eleven, I return to my house with Mercer and two Sentinel guards to pack. Walking through my front door in daylight should be easier. I quickly discover it isn’t.
The house looks almost too bright, sunlight spilling across polished floors and gleaming counters, making the whole place seem innocent.
The police cruisers are gone now, leaving only Sentinel’s marked SUV in the drive and the security van near the garage.
Without flashing lights and uniformed officers, the violation feels quieter, more private, almost more disturbing.
I pack quickly because lingering feels devastating. Clothes. Toiletries. Chargers. The current cookbook draft. A few pieces of jewelry I don’t want left behind. I make a point of not looking at the knife block when I pass through the kitchen.
Mercer locks the house behind us and hands me a temporary access card for Sentinel’s mobile command app, explaining things about remote alerts and system updates while I nod as if I’m absorbing them.
I am not absorbing them. I am thinking about gaining some distance.
The drive out of Orlando feels strange, like I am leaving in the middle of my own life without permission.
I take my SUV because the idea of being chauffeured today makes me feel too exposed, too visible, too much like a person being handled instead of a woman making a choice.
Mercer doesn’t love it, but he doesn’t fight me either.
He only checks the vehicle, confirms my route, and tells me to call if anything feels off.
Anything. The word follows me for miles.