I step to the window. Watch as she gets into Eli’s car. He gives a short wave.
I don’t wave back.
The car disappears into the haze, taillights blinking red through the fog.
And the moment they’re gone, I exhale.
Long. Slow.
Then I turn from the window, head upstairs, and step into my room.
The drawer slides open with a soft scrape. I reach in. Pull out the black hoodie. The fabric is worn in places, elbows, cuffs, but it fits perfectly. I slide it on over my T-shirt.
Because now that Sabine’s gone?
Now the real work begins.
I kneel.
Draw the knife from the sheath at my ankle. Test the edge with my thumb. Clean. Sharp.
Another blade rests at the small of my back, secured beneath the waistband. A third is hidden in the lining of my boot.
Overkill? Maybe.
But I don’t do half-measures anymore.
I cross the room. Reach into the closet. Past the hanging shirts, to the back panel. Just left of center. My fingers find the latch by feel.
A quiet click. The wood shifts.
And I’m in.
The crawlspace is low and narrow, thick with dust and the scent of dry rot. I crouch inside, reach for the old metal box buried beneath a ratty blanket.
It’s dented. Heavy. Familiar.
I drag it out.
Set it down.
Undo the lock, and stare at everything I’ve gathered.
Inside are the clues too important to be stored in the notebook downstairs.
A photo of a license plate that’s shown up too many times in too many places.
A gas station receipt, two streets over—Sabine’s name scrawled in marker and taped to the pump, like a message.
A flash drive, encrypted, labeled only by a date. Footage of a man in a hoodie pausing too long at the end of our street.
And a gun. Not the one in the drawer.
That one’s for warnings. For slamming against a doorframe at two in the morning when instincts go hot and stupid.
This one is for when there’s no one left to warn.
I set it beside me on the floor and open the laptop—one I keep permanently offline. No Wi-Fi. No cloud. No risk.
