Manila. No return address. My blood runs cold.
"This was in my mailbox this morning," she says. "I almost threw it away, thought it was junk. Then I opened it."
She hands me the envelope.
Inside are photos.
Leah walking to her car after a shift, keys in hand, scrubs rumpled from twelve hours on her feet.
Leah at the grocery store, reaching for a carton of milk, completely unaware of the camera.
Leah unlocking her apartment door, her back to the photographer, vulnerable and exposed.
The photos are recent—timestamps show they were taken over the past week.
Which means while we've been guarding Vanna, while we've been watching the compound and checking the perimeter, Virgil's been circling someone else.
Someone I didn't think to protect.
My sister.
And at the bottom of the stack, a note in that same blocky handwriting.
The same anonymous script that haunted Vanna's photos:
PRETTY SISTER. BE A SHAME IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO HER.
The rage that explodes through me is unlike anything I've ever felt.
It's not hot—it's cold.
Ice cold.
The kind of anger that doesn't scream or throw punches.
The kind that plans.
That calculates.
That waits for the perfect moment to destroy.
Virgil has been watching my little sister.
The girl I carried out of a burning house when she was four years old.
The woman I've protected my entire life, through every hardship, every loss.
He's been stalking her, photographing her, learning her routines.
And now he's using her against me.
"He knows about Leah." My voice comes out flat. Dead. Like something inside me has turned to stone. "He's been following her too."
"Who?" Leah's eyes are wide, her exhaustion replaced by fear. "Garrett, what the hell is going on? Who sent these? Why do they have pictures of me?"
I look at Aunt Ellie.
She nods once, understanding.
