Chapter 57
Deputy Scout Wilson — On the Pool House Roof
Dark swallowed the yard whole.
Scout lay there another breath.
Then another.
He should go.
Backup was coming. The pin was sent.
But she was right there.
He shifted carefully, inching back toward the skylight. Slow. Controlled. Testing the shingles before committing weight.
Just one more look.
Just long enough to see her breathe.
He eased up enough to see her chest rise.
There.
Alive.
His boot pressed down—
A sharp electronic chirp cut through the night.
Scout went still.
Too late.
Motion alert.
Floodlights detonated around the yard, white beams exploding outward, washing the roofline in glare.
Damn it.
He’d triggered the secondary system.
Inside the main house, a monitor flickered blue.
And then—
The back door opened.
Sinclair stepped into the yard, rifle already shouldered.
He wasn’t searching.
He was hunting.
Scout saw him.
Their eyes locked.
Scout lunged—
The shot cracked.
Heat ripped through his shoulder and stole the air from his lungs. The bullet tore through him and blew out the skylight behind him.
Glass erupted in every direction.
His boots lost traction. Shingles scraped his spine like grit and broken glass.
He clawed for the gutter—but his right arm went dead.
The roof did the rest. He tumbled.
Struck the old antenna near the eave—metal snapping, slowing him just enough—
He rolled off the edge.
Branches tore at him.
Shrubs broke his fall—then frozen ground.
Hard.
The world flashed white.
Then gray.
His shoulder burned. Warmth soaked down his sleeve.
Tessa.
Inside.
Don’t let this be the end.
Not like this.
Not before he told her.
Not before she knew.
The dark closed in.
Special Agent Tessa Quinn
She saw it the instant the light changed.
The skylight flared bright.
And in that white glare—
Scout.
His silhouette.
Her heart stopped.
“Scout—”
The rifle cracked.
His body jerked.
Glass exploded downward in a violent rain of shards.
Then he was gone.
“No!”
She moved on instinct.
She flipped the desk.
She dropped behind it as glass knifed through the air. Cold, dusty air poured in through the broken skylight. The typewriter crashed. The violet pottery shattered.
Her ears rang.
No second shot.
No footsteps.
No sirens.
Had he come alone?
God, please don’t let him have come alone.
Static.
The speaker crackled to life.
Cool. Calm.
“Well, Agent Quinn,” the voice said. “He did come for you.”
Her throat closed.
“He was very brave.”
A pause.
“But brave men don’t always understand structure.”
Her hands tightened around the desk edge.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“He’s bleeding out in my yard,” Sinclair said.
“And now we can return to the ending.”
Her pulse slammed.
Please let him be alive.
Please.
A soft exhale over the speaker.
“This is what happens,” he said, “when someone interrupts the story.”
The speaker clicked off.
And Tessa stayed crouched behind the overturned desk—
Shaking.
Listening.
Waiting for another shot that didn’t come.