Weekly report on Stewart attached. Her finances are a disaster. Three jobs. $847 in her account. She's barely surviving.
James
And that's a surprise? She left everything. She's in a shelter, for God's sake. Let her be.
Jack
She doesn't get to just 'be.'
One week ago
Jack
Daisy drew a picture for her today. She pinned it to her cleaning cart.
James
And that's a bad thing? Jack, your daughter hasn't connected with anyone sinceElena.
Jack
She doesn't get to have that. Not from my daughter. Not after what she did. She stayed silent, James. While Elena bled out on that road, she stayed silent.
The words blurred. The world twisted around me. My knees, already on the floor, buckled fully, and I caught myself on the edge of the desk, a sickening wave of dizziness crashing over me like a physical thing.
She stayed silent. While Elena bled out on that road, she stayed silent.
Elena Spencer. The name of Jane Doe in the closed court documents I'd obsessively read online in the dead of night. The deceased. The victim. The ghost who haunted my nightmares, whose face I'd never seen but imagined constantly.
His wife.
He knew. He had always known who I was. Every Friday for nine months, I'd walked into this beautiful prison believing I was invisible, believing I was safe in my anonymity, believing the closed hearing meant the family would never know my name or face. Grateful for the quiet peace Daisy offered, for the one place I felt almost normal. And the entire time, he had been watching. Tracking my route home. Reading reports on my life. Cataloging what I bought at the grocery store, what corner I turned, how much money I had.He'd engineered my presence here with precision. This wasn't a job. It was a trap. I was the mouse, and he was the cat who'd been playing with me for his own cruel, unfathomable reasons.
The panic was no longer thin and manageable. It was a tidal wave, roaring in my ears, drowning out all thought except one primal command:Get out of here.
I was so focused on the messages, I didn't even hear the shower stop.
I fumbled for the papers with my free hand, trying to gather them while still holding his phone, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip anything. Daisy stood a few feet away, Mr. Bounces now held in a stranglehold against her chest, her small face etched with confusion at my sudden terror.
A moment later, I heard footsteps behind me.
The sound of bare feet on hardwood. Slow. Deliberate. Close.
Time stopped. My entire body went rigid, every muscle locking into place. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think beyond the single, screaming thought:He knows. He knows I know.
I turned my head, the movement feeling like it took years.
He was standing in the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping from his hair.
Jack Spencer stood there, half-dressed and utterly still, his gray eyes locked on mine. Water gleamed on his chest and shoulders, dripped from the dark strands of his hair that he'd pushed back from his forehead.Steam rolled out from the bathroom behind him like something alive, like something from a nightmare. He looked almost vulnerable in that moment, caught off guard, exposed. But there was nothing vulnerable in his eyes.
Those eyes took in everything: Me on my knees amidst his spilled files, his phone clutched in my trembling hand, the messages still glowing on the screen. His gaze flicked to Daisy, standing small and confused beside me, then back to my face.
I saw the exact moment understanding dawned. The surprise evaporated, replaced by something darker, colder. His eyebrows lowered. His shoulders squared. The distance between us, maybe twelve feet, felt like inches.
He stepped closer, voice low, as he growled, "You weren't supposed to see that."
4.Jack
