She’s quiet for a moment, and her eyes can’t hide the range of emotions she’s going through as she processes this. “What do we do?”
“I need to talk to Owen and check those offline cameras, verify if it’s storm damage or if he found them. But Maya, if he’s escalating—”
“You think he’ll come back.”
“I know he will.” I pull her onto my lap, hands framing her face. I don’t have the heart to tell her that he may not have ever left, but unless I know that for a fact, there’s no reason to scare her unnecessarily. “Guys like him don’t just watch. They build up courage, create a narrative where they’re the victim. When they act, it’s bad.”
She starts to move off my lap, but I hold her there while I call Owen. A deep, primal urge needs her close, needs to know exactly where she is until this threat is eliminated.
“Ambrose, it’s early even for you.” Owen’s voice is gravelly with sleep. I hear Vivian mumble in the background, asking if everything is okay.
“Got a positive ID on our vandal. Clint Lansing. He’s a contractor who lost the bid on the lakeside development. I caught him on camera, but it seems he watched me install them, so he hasn’t shown up yet. He stays outside the distance for triggering a movement alert. Two of the visible cameras went offline yesterday. I need you to check if it looks like storm damage or tampering from your end.”
“Hold on. Let me grab my machine.” He yawns. “Alright,” he finally says, and I can hear the clacking of his keyboard. “Both went offline around 14:00 yesterday, right when the worst of the storm hit. Could be wind damage, torn cables. Without physical inspection, hard to say.”
“I’ll check them today. Meanwhile, I need you to review the footage carefully. Somehow, this guy knows to stay far enough away not to trigger the motion sensor. Document everything you can find with that truck. His truck has a dented quarter panel that is distinctive.”
“On it.” Owen pauses. “This guy dangerous?”
“Angry contractor who thinks he deserves what Maya earned?” I feel her tense against me. “Potentially dangerous. Ask Knox to run a background check ASAP. We need to know if he’s just hoping a few scare tactics will work, or if he has any history of violence.”
“Want backup?”
“Not yet. But tell Knox and Kane to be ready.”
“Copy that. Reed?” His tone shifts. “Keep her safe.”
“Absolutely.” I end the call and look at Maya. “I need to check those cameras.”
I workon the southeastern camera mount. The storm did a number on it—the whole unit is hanging by twisted metal, camera pointing uselessly at the sky. The cable’s been torn nearly through by wind-whipped debris.
The broken branch hanging by the camera suggests this wasn’t tampering, just bad luck and weather.
I secure the mount with fresh bolts, straighten the angle, and start splicing the damaged cable. The second camera is similar—apparent wind damage knocked it completely offline. As I work, I think about Clint Lansing circling the property in his truck, thinking he’d found blind spots when really my porch camera had him the whole time.
My phone buzzes. Owen:Reviewed all footage. He’s been on site every day since you arrived.
Son of a bitch. Every day. Since Tuesday, when I installed the cameras. He’s been watching Maya—watchingus—building his anger and justification for whatever he’s planning.
A rage builds in my chest, reminding me of the same cold fury I had in Kandahar when we discovered insurgents targeting a school.
I finish the splice and test the connection. I verify with Owen that both cameras are back online, feeding clear footage to our server. No more blind spots created by the storm. Between these and my porch camera that I haven’t told anyone about, we have full coverage.
Headlights sweep across the property as the sun sets.
I’m behind the equipment shed in seconds, watching as a now-familiar truck rolls slowly up the access road. Clint Lansing, none the wiser, thinks he’s evading the cameras. But this time, I’m ready for him.
He parks in his usual spot—what he thinks is still a blind spot. He doesn’t know I’ve had Owen expand the movement radius for the cameras.
I text Maya:He’s here. Go inside. Lock doors. Stay away from windows.
Her response is immediate:Be careful.
Clint gets out of his truck, and rage boils in me when I see he has a gas can in one hand, something else in the other—too dark to make out clearly, but the way he holds it suggests a weapon.
This is an unprovoked escalation.
I move through the shadows, keeping the equipment shed between us as he approaches the model home. He’s focused on the windows, looking for Maya, not looking for a tail.
