Sheriff Tate moved to the screen so fast his chair toppled behind him. “Run that again.”
The footage rewound — then played forward in slow motion.
A figure in uniform.
Inside the sheriff’s office.
Unlocking a door that should have been sealed.
The camera angle shifted as Saint enhanced the image.
Trigger’s breath caught. “No way.”
Havoc muttered a curse.
Wolf’s eyes darkened into something lethal. “Who is that?”
Saint zoomed.
The face came into view.
My stomach flipped.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was Deputy Markson.
Sheriff Tate’s expression fell into stunned silence — betrayal and fury mixing into something hollow and dangerous.
“No,” Tate whispered. “No… I vouched for him.”
Trigger stepped forward. “Sheriff, he let them in.”
Saint added, “Not only that — he walked them through the security bypass. He knew exactly where the blind spots were.”
Havoc cracked his knuckles. “Traitor.”
Wolf’s voice came out quiet — too quiet.
“He was stalling you.”
Tate sat heavily in the nearest chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “He volunteered for Nora’s detail two weeks ago. I thought he was being helpful.”
My blood ran cold.
Trigger pointed to the footage. “He was scouting her patterns.”
Saint added, “And he fed intel to the men outside.”
Wolf turned toward me — slow, deliberate.
“How long,” he asked softly, “did Markson know you were alone at night?”
My throat tightened. “I—I don’t know. He knew I closed the library at five, except on Thursdays, when I closed it at eight. He’d walk by sometimes. He said he was keeping watch.”
Wolf’s eyes went molten with fury.
“He was not keeping watch,” he growled. “He was keeping track.”
