Then I reach behind the microwave and pull out the notepad.
It’s battered, half the pages dog-eared, some smudged from being written in the rain or scribbled on in the dark. But every word in here matters. Names. License plates. Suspicious cars. Unmarked delivery trucks. People who lingered too long. Times. Locations. Patterns. Gut feelings I’ve learned not to ignore.
To someone else, it’d look like the ravings of a man spiraling. A tangle of paranoia and red-string logic.
Fair enough.
But I know what I’m looking at.
This is my own personal war journal.
Grayson couldn’t do this. Not like I can. He’s a good man. He cares about his job, about his family, but he still believes in the system. Still thinks the truth should be earned the right way.
Me? I don’t care about the right way.
If I want to catch this bastard, I have to be every bit as obsessive as he is. I have to see the world the way he does. In habits. In vulnerabilities. In soft spots and slippages. I have to crawl inside his rotted skull and sit there long enough to understand how he thinks.
I flip to today’s date. Pen already in hand.
0400 – Wake
0420 – Perimeter check. Clear.
0630 – Sabine awake. No signs of distress.
Feed stable. West cam glitch at 0516 – no visual. Logged.
I stare at the entry.
That glitch… it’s probably nothing. Could be a bug, a flicker, a blown fuse. But I don’t like unexplained gaps. Even the smallest blind spot makes my skin crawl. I circle the timestamp, underline it once, and make a mental note to check the wiring later.
Then I close the notepad and slide it back into its hiding place, tucking it behind the microwave like I’ve done a hundred times before.
When Sabine walks into the kitchen again, she’s got her game face on. Hair braided, hoodie zipped, earrings in. Looks like nothing ever happened.
“Sure you don’t want me to drive you?” I ask.
Eli’s fine, but I’d rather it be me.
She slings her bag over her shoulder and gives a small shake of her head. “Eli’s probably already halfway here.”
“He wouldn’t mind.”
“Cassian…” she exhales.
“Fine.” I nod once. “Text me when you get there.”
“I always do.”
“And if anything feels off—”
“I’ll let you know.” She gives me a ghost of a smile. “You going to be okay?”
Stupid question. She knows I will. I’m always okay. Trained to be okay.
“Go,” I say, flicking my hand toward the door.
She lingers for half a second, like she wants to say something else, but then she turns and walks out, locking the door behind her.
