Chapter 55
Deputy Scout Wilson
Scout parked a block away, killed the engine, and stepped out into the cold. The mountain air bit sharp against his face, clearing his head.
He grabbed his backpack from the passenger seat and slung it over one shoulder—binoculars, gloves, small flashlight, knife, radio. Scanned the neighborhood.
No movement. Christmas lights glowing softly along porch rails. A plastic reindeer tipped a little sideways in one yard.
Another manicured street in a tidy neighborhood—exactly the sort of place that let monsters blend in.
And somewhere behind one of these homes… Please. Let her be here.
Scout steadied himself and headed toward the tree line behind the houses. The embankment was steep, slick with damp leaves. He climbed anyway, boots digging in, branches snagging at his jacket.
He pushed deeper into the woods—thick undergrowth, tangled vines, loose soil shifting. His foot brushed a downed tree he hadn’t seen, and he stumbled hard, catching himself with one palm in the dirt.
“Damn it,” he muttered, breath fogging.
None of it mattered.
He got up and kept going.
A train whistle cut through the dark—louder here, closer than it had sounded from town.
Scout glanced at his watch.
7:00 p.m.
Finally, the ground leveled out—high enough to see over the backyard, but buried deep enough in brush that no one would spot him without a searchlight.
He dropped to a knee and slid the pack off. Unzipped it. Pulled out the infrared binoculars and lifted them to his eyes.
A click. A shimmer of static.
The backyard came into view in green tones. Trees. Fence. A brick structure at the far end of the property.
Scout adjusted the focus.
The small building sharpened.
Brick exterior. Tall pitched roof. Centerline skylights—two long panes of reinforced glass set into the apex.
He panned lower.
The ground glowed pale green. He adjusted again.
Two HVAC units. Side by side. Feeding the small structure.
Scout lowered the binoculars.
Then angled them toward the main house.
At the back of the larger home sat a single, standard HVAC unit.
Only one.
Adrenaline slid sharp and fast through his system.
A guest cottage wouldn’t need two.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself steady.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
Scout stayed low, binoculars still pressed to his eyes.
Nothing moving. No shadows behind the brick.
A perfect opening.
Scout’s muscles tightened—ready to drop down the rise and make the roof before anyone could come out—
Headlights flared at the far end of the street.
Scout froze.
The beams swept across fences and bare branches, cutting through the dark like a blade.
A car turned onto the street—slow, controlled.
Then another set of headlights followed behind it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched through the brush as both vehicles rolled into the driveway like they belonged there.
The first car eased into the garage.
The second followed.
Garage lights bloomed bright—then swallowed them whole.
The door started to lower.
Scout backed up fast, silent, controlled—retreating the way he’d come, keeping his body tight to the shadow line of the trees.
He climbed the rise again, boots finding the same slick roots and leaf-slick ground, forcing his breathing down until it didn’t fog in visible bursts.
He didn’t stop until he was deep enough in the woods that no one could spot him from the yard.
Only then did he drop to a knee.
Wait.
That was the job now.
He unzipped his pack with slow hands and pulled out the infrared binoculars again.
The garage door sealed shut.
The backyard went dark.
And Scout watched the house settle.
Monsters didn’t need darkness to hide.
They just needed neighbors.
Minutes dragged.
A downstairs light clicked off.
Another one followed.
A shadow crossed an upstairs window—tall, unhurried.
Then the bedroom light went out.
Scout checked his watch.
10:17 p.m.
He waited anyway.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
Nothing.
No doors. No movement.
Now.
He zipped the infrared binoculars into the pack and pulled out the smaller pair, tucking them inside his jacket.
Then he moved.
Careful.
Low.
Bone-deep steady.
He descended the rise, boots sinking into wet mulch and leaves, keeping to the darkest edges where the yard met the woods. The brick structure sat forty yards behind the main house…half-hidden by ornamental pines and the slope of the yard.
He reached the back of the structure and waited, ears tuned for any hint of life inside.
Nothing.
The only sound was his pulse, frantic in his ears. He wiped his hands on his jacket, suddenly aware of how slick his skin had become—sweat or cold, he couldn’t tell.
What if I’m too late?
He looked up.
The skylights glinted faintly against the winter sky, angled sharply along the roof’s apex.
Scout wrapped his fingers around the cold edge of the gutter and hauled himself onto the retaining ledge, boots scraping brick. From there, he found a foothold against the cedar trim and, with a controlled exhale, hoisted himself onto the steep pitch of the roof.
The shingles were slick beneath his gloves. He kept his weight low, crawling carefully toward the skylights.
If she was in there, this was the closest he’d been to her since she disappeared.
When he reached the first skylight, he eased up just enough to look.
One slow count.
Another.
Then—very slowly—
Scout cupped his hands around the glass
and peered inside.