Chapter 31 #2
Dawson narrows his eyes—not accusing, just thinking. “Right. Then maybe it’s not about the bank. Like those three suits last night.”
A quiet beat.
He doesn’t say, maybe it’s about you.
He doesn’t have to.
I close the laptop. “I’ll run diagnostics again tonight. Off-hours. Quiet.”
Dawson lifts his hat, scratching the back of his head as he eyes the frozen frame on the screen.
“Appreciated,” he mutters, then looks at me—really looks. “Listen, Ethan… if this is connected to—”
He stops, the words drying up. He doesn’t know what name he’s reaching for. Doesn’t know what shadow sits behind me. Just knows there is one.
He clears his throat, switches lanes. “—anything you’ve been tracking lately… anything from your old work… I’d like to know.”
My jaw flexes once.
Old work.
Military days.
Private security contractors.
Cases I never talk about.
“I’ll tell you if it becomes relevant,” I say.
He studies me a beat longer, reading between lines I’m not speaking out loud. Dawson may not know details, but he’s not stupid.
“I trust you,” he sighs. “Sometimes I trust you more than my own deputies. Just—be sharp. Whoever tripped this? They knew what they were doing.”
“I know.”
He eyes me for a moment, then smirks—one of those slow, knowing ones that says he’s been sitting on a comment for a while.
“You, uh… got someone waitin’ on you?” he asks casually. “That pretty neighbor of yours, maybe? ”
My jaw stills. “Neighbor?”
He snorts. “Ethan, I’m the sheriff. Not blind. I couldn’t help but notice you both had a table together last night at Firenze. Your parents liked her too—your mum said she had ‘a lovely energy.’”
Of course she did.
My voice stays dry, flat. “We’ve talked.”
Dawson raises both brows. “Is that what kids call it these days?”
I give him a stare that would shut up most men. Dawson laughs, belly-deep.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not looking to poke around in your business. Hell, you deserve something good after the years you’ve had.”
I nod once, slow.
He lowers his voice, friendly but firm. “I know exactly who that troublemaker was. I looked him up. Some music-industry big shot who thinks he’s untouchable,” he leans in, “And don’t worry—I know exactly who she is.
Small-town doesn’t mean small-brained. Celebrity or not, she’s a guest in my town. I’ll keep it quiet.”
That lands in my chest—harder than I expect. “I appreciate it,” I say.
He gives me that look again. The one that sees straight through me.
“And judging by the way you said that,” he drawls, “I’m guessing you’ve got a bit more goin’ on with her than ‘talking.’”
I tighten my grip on my keys. “…I’m heading home.”
Dawson barks out a laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
He tips his hat. “Go on then. Don’t keep the rockstar waiting.”
I don’t bother correcting him.
Because he’s right.
And I need to get back to her.
The road back toward the lake cuts through the trees in long, dappled streaks of sun and shadow. Normally, this drive settles me. Forest steady. Air clean. Predictable.
Today, it gnaws at me.
That bank alarm wasn’t a kid fumbling with a keypad. It wasn’t a blown sensor. It was deliberate. Precise. Someone threaded the needle between frames on the camera feed and tripped the motion zone without leaving a shape.
A ghost.
Or someone trained.
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Bloody ‘ell…”
I check the rearview again. Empty road. Normal. Nothing’s normal.
A hundred feet later, the truck coughs — once, twice — then gives a grinding whine I’ve never heard from her in eight years. My gut drops.
“Come on…” I murmur.
The engine stutters. Then dies.
I coast to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires, and kill the ignition. The woods are too quiet. No birdsong. No wind. Just stillness.
Too still.
I pop the hood and slide out. A hot rush of engine heat hits my face. I lean in—
And my blood goes cold.
Wires severed. Clean. Purposeful. Like someone wanted the truck to run just long enough to get me away from the lake before killing it.
Not random. Not opportunistic.
Targeted.
My target.
I pull out my phone instantly. Lucky picks up on the first ring.
“Hey,” she says, breath light, unaware. “You okay?”
“Darling, listen to me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. Calm. Calm is oxygen for her. “I need you to lock every door. Now. Deadbolt. Double-check the windows. Don’t go near them.”
A beat. Rustling fabric. “Ethan, what’s going—”
“Just do it. Please.” I steady my breath. “You’re safe inside. Just stay there.”
Another pause. Smaller. Braver than she feels. “Okay. I’m locking up. I’m fine. Just… tell me when you’re close.”
Christ, she’s trying to sound steady for me. That almost splinters something in my chest.
“I will,” I say quietly. “Good girl.”
I hang up before my voice can give away the fear vibrating under my skin.
Next call: Sam.
He answers on the second ring, voice low, wind rushing behind him. “Talk to me.”
“Sheifer might already be in Cedar Lake,” I say. “My truck was tampered with. Clean severing. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”
There’s a hard silence. Then: “Impossible. He never would’ve slipped past me.”
“He tripped a bank alarm to get me into town,” I say. “Pulled me away. And he got to my truck without triggering anything.” My teeth grit. “Sam… he’s better than we thought.”
“He’s not a ghost,” Sam mutters. “No one gets that close without—”
“He got through Lucky’s home security seven years ago.” My pulse spikes. “Maybe this is how.”
Sam goes quiet. Then, low and deadly:
“Okay. Then who the fuck is this guy?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m heading back to the lake house.”
“I’m turning around. I’ll run hot.”
Another call. Sheriff Dawson.
He picks up with a weary exhale. “Let me guess—whatever tripped that bank alarm wasn’t Mother Nature having a mood swing.”
“Sheriff, I need you at the lake house. Lucky Vale’s place,” I say.
“Now. This is about the Sheifer case. Look it up—seven years ago. Breaking and entering, escalating behavior. He made parole last week but skipped his mandated check-in three days ago. Last ping I had says he was headed east, hitched a lift on a rig.”
There's a sharp pause, then keys clacking in the background. “Sheifer… Jesus. The stalker?”
“Lucky’s stalker,” I confirm. “And I think he engineered the bank alarm to pull me off-site. My truck’s been tampered with. He’s here, Dawson. He’s here to finish what he started.”
“Who the hell is tracking him?” Dawson asks, voice low. “Because that’s… not parole-level monitoring.”
I hesitate. “Someone I used to work with.”
Silence. Then a muttered curse. “Ethan, if you're gearing up for something off-book, I can’t be party to it.”
“I’m not asking you to be,” I say. “I’m asking you to help keep Lucky alive.
And I don’t believe Sheifer’s background is civilian.
Everything points to him being trained intel.
His official file was full of redactions; someone’s hiding his history.
I need you to see what you can legally pull—anything about his skill set, his movements, known associates. ”
Dawson blows out a breath. “I don’t have federal clearance for his unredacted file. Small-town sheriff, remember? But…” He pauses. “I can call in a favor. State fusion center owes me one. If they can’t send the file outright, they can at least brief me on what’s not classified.”
“Good enough.”
“I’m en route,” he says. “ETA ten. Keep your phone on and don’t do anything heroic before I get there.”
I end the call.
And then I run.
Boots pounding dirt. Breath burning. The tree line blurs. Every instinct I have screams move. Get to her. Get to her now.
Halfway up the trail, I pull out my phone again. Dial.
Lucky doesn’t answer.
“Come on, darling…” I mutter, dialing again.
Ring. Ring.
No answer.
A cold slice of fear cuts straight through me.
I break into a sprint.
And I don’t stop.