That’s what pisses me off.
White siding. Porch swing. A little wreath still hanging because Stella seems like the type who believes seasonal decor should be celebrated aggressively. Her porch light is off.
I park at the curb but don’t get out right away.
I scan the street. The yards. The shadows.
Stella’s voice is small. “Jack…?”
“Stay in the truck,” I tell her.
“I can?—”
“Stella.” I cut it off before it becomes a debate.
Her lips press together, but she nods. “Fine.”
“Lock up when I leave.”
She gives me a quick nod.
I get out, shut my door quietly, and approach the house like I’m back on mission—feet light, senses wide, breath controlled. I check the side yard. The gate. The back corner. I listen.
Nothing.
That doesn’t mean anything.
I reach the porch. Test the door.
Unlocked.
My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.
I step inside, moving through her living room, checking corners, checking windows, checking the back door. The house smells like vanilla and laundry detergent and her—soft, sweet, normal. It makes me want to burn the whole world down for touching it.
There’s a zip tie on the counter.
Neat. Deliberate.
I stare at it for a beat too long.
Then I turn and go back to the porch. Stella is still in the truck, arms folded, trying to look tough.
I motion with two fingers. “Come.”
She climbs out quickly and hurries to me. The second she reaches the porch, I put my hand at her lower back and guide her inside without thinking.
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
She follows my lead down the hall, eyes darting. I can feel her trying to stay calm.
She’s brave as hell.
That makes me even angrier.
“We’re moving fast,” I tell her. “Bag for two, three days. Essentials. Charger. Meds if you have them. Shoes you can run in.”
“I can run in heels,” she says automatically.
