Mom's expression suggests she wants to wrap me in protection the way she did when I was sixteen and the world fell apart. But she's learned I need to handle things my own way.
"Just be careful, honey. Some people's ignorance turns dangerous."
"I know, Mom. I will."
Dinner rush consumes the next few hours. By the time my shift ends and I'm driving home, exhaustion has settled deep.
Pine Valley rolls up its sidewalks early, streets quiet as I navigate toward my rental cottage on the edge of town. The one-bedroom place sits at the end of a quiet street, with a small front porch and a yard I never have time to maintain properly. I took the lease when I accepted the Ridgeway contract six months ago, needing something close to Mom but still my own space.
I park in the gravel drive, gathering my bag and the leftovers Mom insisted I take. Porch steps creak under my weight as I climb toward my front door, keys already in hand.
Porch light flickers. Just an old bulb, nothing sinister. I unlock my door and step inside, reaching for the light switch.
Everything looks normal. My couch sits where I left it, my small kitchen is tidy, my work papers are stacked on the dining table. Relief starts to ease the tension in my shoulders.
Then I notice the coffee table. Magazines I keep there are rearranged, the remote control sits on the wrong side. Details barely worth noticing, except I live alone and left everything exactly where it should be this morning.
My heart kicks into a faster rhythm as I walk through the cottage. Nothing is missing, nothing obviously wrong, but someone was here. In my home.
Cold creeps through me as I realize the extent of the violation. I grab my phone, prepared to call the police, but what would I report? Someone moved my magazines? It sounds paranoid, sounds like exactly the kind of overreaction people expect.
I set down my phone and my leftovers. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just tired and paranoid.
But combined with the items moved in my office and the note on my truck, a pattern emerges that's harder to dismiss. Someone is paying attention to me, to my routines and my spaces. Someone wants me to know they can reach me anywhere.
I double-check my door locks and window latches. I'm not overreacting. I'm recognizing a threat, assessing risk,responding appropriately. Tomorrow I'll talk to Cain, provide all the details, and let base security handle the investigation.
I change into comfortable clothes and settle on my couch with a report I need to review. My cottage feels different now, less like sanctuary and more like something that's been compromised.
I've survived worse losses than this, endured grief that would have destroyed someone less stubborn. Anonymous notes and moved items are nothing compared to standing at Dad's grave or identifying Tyler's body.
I'll handle this the way I handle everything else. With documentation and refusal to be intimidated.
But when I finally head to bed hours later, I sleep with my phone on the nightstand and pepper spray within reach.
The next morning, I'm packing my field bag in the cottage when I glance out the window toward my truck. Something sits on the hood, dark against the pale metal. From this distance it looks like debris, maybe a branch that fell overnight. But as I step onto the porch and get closer, the shape resolves into something familiar.
One of my magazines rests on the truck hood, positioned carefully in the center where I can't miss it. Not just any magazine—it's theNational Geographicthat was on my coffee table last night. The one with the bright yellow border that I'd left on top of the stack.
My blood goes cold.
Someone was in my cottage last night. I wasn't being paranoid about the moved items. They were here, going through my things, rearranging my life. And now they've taken something from inside my locked home and placed it on my truck to prove they can reach me anywhere.
I force myself to move closer. The magazine lies open to a specific page—an article about migratory bird patterns. Themessage is clear even without words:I know what you do. I know where you live. I know everything about you.
This isn't random harassment anymore. This is targeted. Personal. Escalating.
My hands don't shake as I document the scene with my phone camera, taking photos from multiple angles. I've buried a father and a husband. Some asshole trying to scare me off base with anonymous notes and stolen magazines doesn't even register on the scale of what I've already survived.
But as I stare at that magazine lying on my truck hood, at the proof that someone violated my home and followed me to work, I realize something fundamental has changed.
This person isn't just trying to intimidate me. They're hunting me.
2
DEVLIN
Duke clears the obstacle course with a precision that makes other handlers shake their heads in envy. The Belgian Malinois hits every marker perfectly, his lean body coiling and releasing with controlled power as he navigates the training yard. I watch him work, calling commands that he responds to before the words fully leave my mouth.
