We move through the forest, scanning the ground for anything—a broken branch, a scrap of fabric, fresh footprints. But the storm rolling in has already begun to muddy the tracks. The damp leaves and shifting wind make it impossible to tell if someone has passed through recently.
It’s frustrating as hell.
Asher’s barely said a word since we left the house, but his tension is palpable. He wants blood, and I don’t blame him.
After another fruitless sweep of the woods, we circle back to the road. The tire tracks are still visible in the soft dirt, but without a direction, we’re grasping at straws. I glance up, scanning the tree line, and that’s when I spot it.
A structure, half-hidden by dense foliage.
“There.” I point, and Asher follows my gaze.
A deer blind. Elevated, camouflaged. The perfect vantage point to watch the road without being seen.
Asher exhales sharply, something clicking into place in his head. “Shit.”
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, already moving toward the blind. “There was a hunter out here a few days ago,” he says. “Ran into him while I was checking the perimeter. Claimed he was just out for deer, even offered me some meat.”
I frown. “And you believed him?”
“No,” Asher says flatly. “But I didn’t have a reason not to. Not until now.”
We push through the undergrowth, making our way toward the blind. My pulse picks up. If this so-called hunter had anything to do with Jason, if he was out here watching us—hell, if he was working with him—then we’re already playing catch-up.
We reach the base of the blind. The wooden ladder is old but sturdy. Asher grips the rungs and starts to climb while I stay below, scanning the area, my gun in hand.
A few seconds later, I hear Asher curse. “Son of a bitch!”
“What?” I climb up behind him.
I get my answer as soon as I step in.
“This isn’t a deer blind,” I mutter, stepping inside. The space is too tight for both of us to move easily, but that’s not what sets my nerves on edge. It’s the gear. “What the fuck?”
Professional-grade surveillance equipment is crammed into the small structure. A laptop, its screen dark. A parabolic microphone with a long-range attachment. Night vision scopes. A fucking signal jammer, humming that makes my head throb.
“Jesus Christ,” I exhale. “This wasn’t some random hunter. This is a fucking stakeout.”
Asher’s jaw is tight. “And he was watching Mia.”
I follow his gaze to the laptop. It’s open, but the screen is in sleep mode. Asher presses a key, and the screen flickers to life.
A live feed of the lake house.
My blood turns to ice. The angles aren’t from our security cameras. These are different. Someone had installed their own surveillance on us.
There’s no feed of the house’s interior, just the surrounding areas—the porch, the driveway, the backyard, even the upstairs windows. It was all being monitored remotely.
“This is how they knew our routines,” Asher says, voice low with anger. “They’ve been watching this whole time.”
A sick realization settles over me. “And we never saw them.”
Asher doesn’t reply. He just clicks through the feeds, his shoulders stiff. Then he stops.
A paused frame of Mia and the girls, taken earlier today.
My stomach clenches. Whoever set this up knew what they were doing. They were waiting for an opportunity.
