“People they trust could become people they fear. People they love could become strangers.”
So if Evelyn and Sophia had already been exposed, they might not recognize me. Might not trust me, even if they needed my help.
Not that I expected a warm welcome anyway. Six months of silence had likely done that damage already.
“Understood. Anything else?” I asked.
“Just... be careful,” Kate said. “This tech is nasty stuff. Alistair’s helping us work on a neutralizing agent, but we can’t guarantee we’ll have one ready if the shit hits the fan there.”
“Check in tomorrow,” Ethan concluded. “Edge Ops out.”
The connection closed with a soft click, leaving me alone with the night sounds and the faint glow of thermal images on my screen. Evelyn’s heat signature remained still in her bedroom. Sleeping, finally. Sophia’s smaller form hadn’t moved since she’d gone to bed, deep in the untroubled sleep of childhood.
I settled back against the rock, eyes fixed on the monitors. Five to seven days of exposure before the mind control took effect. If whoever bought that NeuroLink tech had already contaminated the water supply, the clock was ticking. If not, I had a narrow window to prevent it from happening.
Either way, I wasn’t leaving.
Not until I knew for certain they were safe.
The night air grew colder as the hours passed, but I barely noticed. I’d spent more nights like this than I could count—watching, waiting, protecting people who didn’t know they were being protected—but this felt different. This wasn’t just another mission. This was Evelyn and Sophia.
This was the closest thing to family I’d ever known.
And I’d kill whoever was behind this before I let them turn Evelyn into a puppet again. Before they got anywhere near Sophia.
Some lines shouldn’t be crossed, but this one already had my boot print on it.
CHAPTER 4
EVELYN
I wokeup two minutes before my alarm, the way I always did. Old habits. Survival instincts. My body knew that those precious moments of silence before the day began were the only ones I’d have to myself. I slipped from bed and padded to the window, scanning the rimrocks beyond our backyard. Nothing moved in the pre-dawn shadows, but that didn’t mean nobody was watching. The stranger at Carol’s motel had kept me tossing all night, thoughts circling like vultures. John Smith. Obviously fake. A man with a gun who asked about local law enforcement.
Deep breath. Keep breathing. This is normal paranoia. You’ve handled worse.
After a quick shower, I moved through our morning routine on autopilot—oatmeal with brown sugar for Sophia, coffee strong enough to strip paint for me. I laid out Sophia’s clothes for school: practical jeans, her favorite purple sweater, and the mismatched socks she insisted on wearing since Beth Morris had made them fashionable in her classroom.
“Mommy, can I wear my butterfly pin today? For the nature walk?” Sophia appeared in the doorway, her serious eyeswatching me carefully. Always watching, always assessing. My heart ached at how much of myself I saw in her.
“Of course,” I answered, pulling the small enamel pin from her jewelry box. “Ms. Beth will love it.”
“Do you think we’ll see real butterflies today?”
“Probably not.” I fastened the pin to her sweater. “It’s too cold, too late in the year. Most butterflies have migrated for the winter.” I couldn’t stand her look of utter disappointment and added, “But Ms. Beth always finds something exciting.”
Sophia’s eyes lit up. “Maybe we’ll find a Mourning Cloak butterfly! Ms. Beth says they stay here for the winter. Did you know they are Montana’s state butterfly?”
“I did not know that.” I smiled as I helped her into her jacket. My girl, always so hungry for facts, for answers that made sense of the world. I envied that certainty, that trust in observable truth.
We walked the four blocks to Prairie View Elementary, Sophia’s hand tucked into mine. The morning air had that sharp bite that meant winter was coming soon. Another few weeks and these walks would end, mornings spent scraping ice off windshields and warming up the car instead. I’d miss this—just the two of us and the crunch of leaves underfoot, no engine noise, no heater blasting.
We passed the bar and grill where Sheriff Parker’s cruiser sat parked in its usual spot. Wade was nothing if not predictable, his daily routine as reliable as the town’s single traffic light.
“Look!” Sophia pointed ahead. “Everyone’s wearing matching clothes.”
I glanced where she pointed. Three women stood chatting outside the post office, all in blue tops and khaki pants. Nothing unusual about the clothing itself, but there was something... uniform about it. Like they’d coordinated. In a town where personal style ranged from Riss Hollenbeck’s platinum buzzcutand tattoos to Florence Pickering’s severe wool skirts, it stood out.
“Probably for a church thing,” I said automatically, though I wasn’t convinced. Something felt off, like the air pressure changing before a storm.
