Chapter Four | Gage #3
I took her hand and led her down the short hallway. My bedroom was basic—double bed, dresser, photos on the wall. On the dresser sat my grandfather's compass—the one he'd carried in Korea. The one thing I'd kept from the ranch besides the photos.
She studied those photos for a moment—me in my Army MP uniform, me with my brothers on the family ranch, me and Judge after his K9 certification.
Then she turned to me and started unbuttoning my shirt. Her fingers were quick, confident. She pushed the fabric off my shoulders, let it fall to the floor.
"Lacey—"
She kissed me, silencing whatever I'd been about to say. Her hands moved to my belt, and I stopped thinking entirely.
We undressed each other between kisses—her sweater, my jeans, her bra, fumbling with zippers and buttons until we were both bare. I backed her toward the bed, and she pulled me down with her.
This was different from Saturday night. Less desperate, more deliberate. We knew each other's bodies now, knew what touch made the other gasp, where to linger.
I kissed my way down her neck, across her collarbone, lower. She arched beneath me when my mouth found her breast, her fingers threading through my hair.
"Gage—"
I took my time moving down her body until she was trembling. When I finally settled between her thighs, she was already close.
She came apart on my tongue.
Then she pulled me up to her, wrapped her legs around my hips, and guided me inside. We moved together slowly at first, finding our rhythm. She rolled us over, straddling me, and I let her set the pace.
The firelight from the other room cast shadows across her skin. She was beautiful like this—confident, strong, taking what she wanted. Her hands braced on my chest, hair falling around her face as she moved above me.
I gripped her hips, met her movements, felt the tension building in both of us. When her rhythm faltered and her breathing turned ragged, I knew she was close.
"Let go," I said, and she did—clenching around me, her whole body shuddering.
I followed her over, both of us tangled together.
Afterward, she collapsed against my chest. We lay there catching our breath, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.
We fell asleep like that—her in my arms, my hand resting on her hip.
***
Tuesday morning, my alarm went off at five-thirty.
Lacey stirred beside me. "What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep." I kissed her forehead and slid out of bed.
Judge followed me to the kitchen, tags jingling. I started coffee, let him out into the backyard, and filled his bowl with kibble. By the time I'd showered and dressed, Lacey was up, wearing one of my t-shirts, pouring herself coffee. Judge was crunching happily through his breakfast.
"Morning." She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind.
I turned, pulled her close. "You didn't have to get up."
"Clinic opens at eight. I need to go home and change first." She glanced at the clock. "What time do you have to be at the station?"
"Seven." I poured myself a travel mug. "Want me to make you breakfast before I go?"
"I'll grab something at home." She headed toward the bedroom to get dressed. "But thank you."
A few minutes later, she emerged in yesterday's clothes, hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Judge sat by the door, tail wagging.
"He knows the routine already," she said, scratching behind his ears.
I walked her out to her car. The January morning was cold enough to see our breath.
"See you tomorrow at Judge's appointment?" I asked.
"Two o'clock," she confirmed, then kissed me. "Be safe today."
"You too. Text me when you get home."
I watched her drive away, then headed back inside to grab my keys and badge.
***
At the station, I settled at my desk with my second cup of coffee and pulled up the security camera footage from Monday night.
My blood ran cold.
Eleven-fifteen p.m. The studio door shook violently—someone on the other side kicking it, yanking the handle. The deadbolt held. Whoever it was kept at it for close to a minute before giving up.
I scrolled back. At eleven-ten, a figure appeared in the stairwell. Male, disheveled. The way he moved told the story—unsteady, swaying even when standing still. Strung out or mentally unstable, maybe both.
He must have forced the main entrance downstairs. That door only had the building's original lock, not the security I'd installed upstairs.
I didn't recognize him from the grainy footage. But whoever this was, he was desperate enough to break into a building in the middle of the night.
I texted Lacey: Need to talk. Call when you have a break.
She'd be at work now, couldn't answer her phone while assisting Dr. Bev. But she'd see the message eventually.
I started working through other cases while I waited. Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.
"What's wrong?" she asked. No preamble.
"The camera caught someone trying to get into the studio last night around eleven-fifteen. The deadbolt held. He couldn't get through."
Silence.
"Lacey?"
"I'm here." Her voice had gone tight. "Did you see who it was?"
"Not clearly enough to identify him from the footage. But I'm going to find out."
"Could it be Boyd?" The fear in her voice cut through me. "He was obsessive like this. What if he came back?"
"I'll check. Give me his full name and date of birth if you have it."
She did. I wrote it down.
"Let me make some calls. I'll get back to you as soon as I know anything."
After we hung up, I contacted Dallas PD.
They ran Boyd Newsome's information. Current address in North Dallas, employed as a construction superintendent for a commercial developer.
No recent travel, no time off work in the past two months.
His supervisor confirmed he'd been on-site every day for the past six weeks, including yesterday.
I called Lacey back. "It's not Boyd. He's in Dallas, hasn't left the job site in weeks. His employer verified it."
The relief in her voice was immediate. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Then who—"
"I'm working on it. Going through incident reports now, looking for patterns. I'll figure out who this is."
That evening, I drove past the studio during her Tuesday class. The motion light triggered as I approached, illuminating the entrance. A handful of cars in the gravel lot. Through the second-floor window, I could see movement—Lacey teaching, students following her lead.
The building looked more secure than it had. But secure wasn't the same as safe.
At home, I pulled up our incident reports from the past six months. Filtered by location—that corridor of Highway 81. Peeping Tom complaints. Loitering. Trespassing. Public intoxication. Disorderly conduct. Probation violations.
Started cross-referencing names.
Multiple names appeared across the reports. Transients, vagrants, repeat offenders in that area—all with similar charges. Peeping Tom complaints, loitering, trespassing. Some with probation violations, some with mandatory counseling they weren't attending.
The camera footage was too grainy to identify which one. Could be any of them. Could be someone not in the system at all.
I needed better information. A clearer look at whoever was doing this.
Until then, I'd keep watching.