“Will you arrest him?”
“Miss Moreno, without a witness or footage of Jason West, there are no grounds. Looks like a burglary. Anything missing?”
“No,” she said, voice quivering. “But it was him.”
She forced herself to take inventory: laptop gone, some jewelry missing, and—worst of all—an entire box of vital documents gone. Her grandmother’s necklace was missing too. The officer recommended checking the security cameras.
“Good idea.”
They reviewed footage—no sign of Jason. The silence was tense.
Jackson, an officer, leaned closer. “We’ll have techs dust for prints. This seems targeted—probably for your laptop or those papers. When it’s personal, information is the goal.”
Her stomach clenched. Emails and notes about Caitlin could now be exposed.
“I’m sorry, Miss Moreno,” another officer said, handing her a card. “Call me if you see anything.”
The dismissal stung. Panic built. Caitlin’s safety was at risk if the laptop—or those documents—were breached.
Jackson motioned Izzy aside. Luna followed.
“You keep naming Jason West,” he said. “Most don’t know that name, but I do. First time I saw Mrs. West, I pulled her over for speeding. She had a bruise on her cheek—looked like she’d taken a fist to the face—but she smiled through it and said she’d fallen. Second time, I got the call out to their mansion. She wasn’t just bruised then—she’d been beaten, choked. We arrested him that night, but he was out before sunrise. Lawyers, money, influence… men like that slip through every time.”
“Mrs. West—Caitlin—is my best friend,” Izzy said quietly. “She left him. He’ll stop at nothing to find her.”
Jackson’s jaw tightened. “He might have hired someone to raid your place. You should stay vigilant.”
“You believe me?”
“I do.” He gave her his cell number. “Call me, not dispatch, if anything feels off. I’ll keep an eye on West.”
Izzy tucked the paper away. “Thank you.”
“Stay sharp. Men like him don’t stop until they’re forced.”
Izzy clung to the paper, Luna pressed tight to her shoulder.
Jason West
Jason paced his office, eyes fixed on the door. Paul was late, fueling his anger. His untouched bourbon glinted on the desk—a still point in the storm.
He forced himself to breathe, recalling the first time he met Caitlin—a bright, unimpressed museum curator. He had worked hard to win her over, eventually bringing her into his world. His mother had praised her: “She’s genuine. Don’t lose her.” Jason had craved a loyal wife and a family. But Caitlin had not agreed.
Jason’s fists clenched. She had destroyed his image and control. Staring at the city, he vowedshe could not hide; he would unravel her life until she had nowhere left to run.
The intercom buzzed. “Paul is here to see you,” Chrissy said. Paul entered carrying a file box.
“What do you have?” Jason snapped.
Paul shrugged. “Don’t know yet. You said to come straight here. If you’d let my IT guy?—”
Jason lifted the lid: tax returns, bank statements, a property deed, even someone’s will—nothing useful. “That patience cost me a hundred grand,” he snapped.
Paul bristled. “I’ve got her laptop. If there’s nothing on it, I’ll get her phone next.” He took the laptop and left.
Jason waited. Izzy’s phone would be next.
Mike Meachum appeared. Jason’s glare warned him.
