I stare at the words, letting them settle. Five days. Five days until I leave.
It should be a relief. It should feel like an escape.
Instead, I glance back toward the kitchen, toward the laughter and warmth bleeding into the space I’ve tried so hard to keep cold.
And I wonder why the hell I don’t feel like running anymore.
Suddenly, the security alert pings softly, which can mean only one thing. Motion detected at the lake’s edge.
I straighten, my pulse kicking up. Probably just a deer or some other wildlife, but something makes me zoom in on the feed. The mist hangs low over the water, swallowing the shoreline in gray. Nothing moves.
I grab my gun, moving swiftly through the house. Damon and Zane are occupied, and Mia went upstairs with the girls. No time to alert anyone. If someone’s out there, I need to know how they got this close.
Stepping outside, the cool morning air does nothing to ease the tension rolling down my spine. My boots barely make a sound on the damp earth as I make my way toward the lake, eyes scanning, ears listening.
But then I see them. Boot prints. Fresh.
A chill snakes down my spine.
Then—a sharp crack. A bullet tears through the air.
I dive before my brain can process the trajectory, rolling into cover behind a fallen log. Too damn close.
The shot came from the tree line on the west side. Someone’s testing us.
Did Jason find us again? How? We swept for trackers. We ditched the phones.
Rage coils tight in my chest. I press against the log, steadying my breathing, aiming my gun toward the source of the shot. Whoever it is, they don’t get to walk away from this.
They just made their last mistake.
I follow the footsteps through the brush, keeping low, my gun ready. The trail is fresh, the weight distribution deep. Whoever I’m tracking is moving slow, probably carrying something heavy.
Another step, and the rustle of branches ahead.
I raise my weapon as a figure emerges from the trees, hands raised in immediate surrender. He’s older, dressed in a weathered camo jacket with an orange vest over it. A rifle is slung over his shoulder, and at his feet lies a freshly killed deer.
“This is private property,” I snap, keeping my gun pointed at him.
“Easy, buddy.” The man’s voice is rough but calm. “Didn’t see any signs posted. Just tracking my deer. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
My adrenaline is still running high, but I take a breath, forcing myself to reassess. He’s got the look of a regular hunter: grizzled, gray at the edges. Not military. No tactical gear, no secondary weapon visible. Just a guy in the woods.
Still, I don’t lower my gun. “What are you hunting with a damn rifle that loud?”
He jerks his chin toward the deer. “That’s a clean kill. Dropped her fast. Didn’t expect to run into anyone out here.” He eyes me carefully. “You new to these parts?”
I don’t answer.
“Won’t bother you again,” he says after a moment, keeping his hands up. “Just needed to grab my kill.”
I hesitate, then lower my weapon. My pulse still thrums under my skin, but if this guy were working for Jason, he’d have put up a fight. And if he were scouting for information, he wouldn’t be dragging a damn deer.
“You need help loading it?” I ask flatly.
Surprise flickers in his eyes, but he nods. “Wouldn’t say no.”
I shoulder part of the deer’s weight as we haul the carcass toward his truck. It’s an old beat-up thing, coated in layers of dried mud. No suspicious gear in the bed. No surveillance equipment. I’m still running through possibilities, but nothing about him feels off.
