Chapter 1 #2
Back in my office, I try to focus on afternoon paperwork, but something about that confrontation sits wrong.
Hutchins has always been dismissive, always made snide remarks about civilian contractors and women in military spaces.
But the rage in his eyes when I shut him down publicly felt different. Felt dangerous.
I'm reviewing habitat modification proposals when my phone buzzes with a text from Mom.
Don't forget your shift tonight. Dinner rush will be busy.
Afternoon stretches into routine tasks until I'm finally ready to head out. I grab my bag and step into the parking lot, squinting against the late afternoon sun.
A note is tucked under my windshield wiper, a piece of paper folded once and secured against the breeze. I assume it's a reminder about a meeting until I unfold it and read the words scrawled in blocky handwriting.
Go home where women belong.
That message hits like a slap. I stare at the paper, anger flaring hot. Six months of earning respect, of proving my worth, and some asshole with a pen thinks he can reduce me to this.
I scan the parking lot, but no one pays attention to me or my truck. Whoever left this could be anyone, could be watching right now.
I fold the note and shove it into my pocket. Keep working. Keep proving them wrong.
But I should report it. I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the note, then send a message to Lieutenant Colonel Cain's office about the harassment and requesting a meeting tomorrow morning.
My truck starts without issue, and I focus on the drive toward Pine Valley. Just words on paper. Ignorance and resentment from someone who can't accept that the military has evolved.
Pine Valley's diner sits on Main Street, warmth spilling from the windows along with the scent of coffee and home cooking. This place has always felt like safety.
Mom looks up from the register when I walk in, her auburn hair pulled back in a practical bun, her smile immediate and genuine. She built a life here after losing everything that mattered.
"Right on time, sweetheart. Grab an apron and take table six."
I slip into the familiar rhythm of diner work, taking orders and delivering food, chatting with regulars who've known me since we moved here after Dad's funeral. This work grounds me, reminds me that life exists beyond protocols and threat assessments.
Between orders, Mom catches my eye and gestures toward the back. I follow her to the kitchen during a brief lull, where she crosses her arms and studies my face.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Just a long day."
"Andrea Marie, I raised you. Don't lie to your mother."
I pull the note from my pocket and hand it to her, watching anger flash across her features.
"Who left this?"
"No idea. Found it on my truck after work."
"Did you report it?"
"Sent a message to the colonel. I'll meet with her tomorrow." I reclaim the note. "It's probably just some old-guard idiot who doesn't like that a woman tells him how to do his job."
Mom's expression suggests she wants to wrap me in protection the way she did when I was sixteen and the world fell apart. But she's learned I need to handle things my own way.
"Just be careful, honey. Some people's ignorance turns dangerous."
"I know, Mom. I will."
Dinner rush consumes the next few hours. By the time my shift ends and I'm driving home, exhaustion has settled deep.
Pine Valley rolls up its sidewalks early, streets quiet as I navigate toward my rental cottage on the edge of town.
The one-bedroom place sits at the end of a quiet street, with a small front porch and a yard I never have time to maintain properly.
I took the lease when I accepted the Ridgeway contract six months ago, needing something close to Mom but still my own space.
I park in the gravel drive, gathering my bag and the leftovers Mom insisted I take. Porch steps creak under my weight as I climb toward my front door, keys already in hand.
Porch light flickers. Just an old bulb, nothing sinister. I unlock my door and step inside, reaching for the light switch.
Everything looks normal. My couch sits where I left it, my small kitchen is tidy, my work papers are stacked on the dining table. Relief starts to ease the tension in my shoulders.
Then I notice the coffee table. Magazines I keep there are rearranged, the remote control sits on the wrong side. Details barely worth noticing, except I live alone and left everything exactly where it should be this morning.
My heart kicks into a faster rhythm as I walk through the cottage. Nothing is missing, nothing obviously wrong, but someone was here. In my home.
Cold creeps through me as I realize the extent of the violation. I grab my phone, prepared to call the police, but what would I report? Someone moved my magazines? It sounds paranoid, sounds like exactly the kind of overreaction people expect.
I set down my phone and my leftovers. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just tired and paranoid.
But combined with the items moved in my office and the note on my truck, a pattern emerges that's harder to dismiss. Someone is paying attention to me, to my routines and my spaces. Someone wants me to know they can reach me anywhere.
I double-check my door locks and window latches. I'm not overreacting. I'm recognizing a threat, assessing risk, responding appropriately. Tomorrow I'll talk to Cain, provide all the details, and let base security handle the investigation.
I change into comfortable clothes and settle on my couch with a report I need to review. My cottage feels different now, less like sanctuary and more like something that's been compromised.
I've survived worse losses than this, endured grief that would have destroyed someone less stubborn. Anonymous notes and moved items are nothing compared to standing at Dad's grave or identifying Tyler's body.
I'll handle this the way I handle everything else. With documentation and refusal to be intimidated.
But when I finally head to bed hours later, I sleep with my phone on the nightstand and pepper spray within reach.
The next morning, I'm packing my field bag in the cottage when I glance out the window toward my truck.
Something sits on the hood, dark against the pale metal.
From this distance it looks like debris, maybe a branch that fell overnight.
But as I step onto the porch and get closer, the shape resolves into something familiar.
One of my magazines rests on the truck hood, positioned carefully in the center where I can't miss it. Not just any magazine—it's the National Geographic that was on my coffee table last night. The one with the bright yellow border that I'd left on top of the stack.
My blood goes cold.
Someone was in my cottage last night. I wasn't being paranoid about the moved items. They were here, going through my things, rearranging my life. And now they've taken something from inside my locked home and placed it on my truck to prove they can reach me anywhere.
I force myself to move closer. The magazine lies open to a specific page—an article about migratory bird patterns. The message is clear even without words: I know what you do. I know where you live. I know everything about you.
This isn't random harassment anymore. This is targeted. Personal. Escalating.
My hands don't shake as I document the scene with my phone camera, taking photos from multiple angles. I've buried a father and a husband. Some asshole trying to scare me off base with anonymous notes and stolen magazines doesn't even register on the scale of what I've already survived.
But as I stare at that magazine lying on my truck hood, at the proof that someone violated my home and followed me to work, I realize something fundamental has changed.
This person isn't just trying to intimidate me. They're hunting me.