The equipment room's lock clicked open with my key, and I slipped inside. The surveillance cameras were small but powerful, designed for extended outdoor use.
I grabbed four, along with extra batteries and memory cards, then stuffed them into my gym bag beneath a layer of workout clothes that definitely needed washing. The smell would keep anyone from looking too closely.
On my way out, I signed the equipment log with the vague description "wildlife observation," technically not a lie considering what we were after.
The dispatcher didn't even look up as I left.
Back in my truck, I placed the bag carefully on the passenger seat and started the engine. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I scanned the few cars still on Main Street at this hour. A pickup at the all-night diner. A sedan parked outside the conveniencestore. A dark SUV idling near the corner, its windows tinted too dark to see inside.
My pulse quickened. I took a right instead of my usual left toward my apartment, watching to see if the SUV moved. It remained stationary, and I exhaled slowly. Professional paranoia, that's all it was. The poachers couldn't possibly know about my visit to the McKenzie farm tonight. They were good, but they weren't omniscient.
Still, I took a longer route home, doubling back twice and watching my mirrors with trained attention. Nothing followed me.
My apartment building was a converted textile mill from the early 1900s, all exposed brick and industrial windows. The hallways were long and poorly lit, with concrete floors that amplified every footstep. Tonight, the building seemed unusually quiet. No music from the college kid's apartment on the second floor. No smell of the elderly couple's perpetual soup simmering on the third.
I climbed the stairs to my fourth-floor unit, gym bag slung over my shoulder. The equipment inside felt heavier than its actual weight, a physical reminder of the responsibility I'd taken on. Not just for the case, but for Harlow and his family.
The long hallway stretched before me, dimly lit by yellowish fixtures that cast more shadow than light. My apartment was the last one on the left, slightly separated from my neighbors by the building's strange layout. Usually, I appreciated the extra privacy. Tonight, the isolation made my skin prickle.
My key was already in my hand as I approached my door, a habit from years of training. But as I got closer, something felt wrong. The hair on the back of my neck stood up before my conscious mind registered what my instincts already knew.
The door was slightly ajar, a thin line of darkness visible where it hadn't fully closed. I froze, hand outstretched with the key. I hadn't left it open. I never left it open.
My body shifted automatically into a defensive stance as my right hand reached for my service weapon—and found nothing. I'd left it locked in the glove compartment of my truck when I went to see Hetty McKenzie, not wanting to seem threatening. Stupid. Careless.
I stood motionless in the hallway, blood rushing in my ears as I assessed the situation. Someone had been in my apartment. Might still be in there. I had no weapon except a gym bag full of surveillance equipment.
My breath caught in my throat as I pushed the door open wider with my foot, staying to the side of the doorframe as I'd been trained. The darkness inside seemed absolute, not even the ambient glow of electronics visible.
My mouth went dry as paper. Sweat broke out across my forehead and down my spine, cold and clammy despite the warmth of the building. I pulled my phone from my pocket with my free hand, ready to call for backup.
The door swung fully open to reveal the shadowy outline of my living room. Something was wrong with the familiar shapes—furniture out of place, objects on the floor. I couldn't make out details in the darkness, but every instinct screamed that I was looking at a crime scene.
My crime scene.
I fumbled for the light switch with a trembling hand, my fingers finally finding it on the wall. As light flooded the apartment, my breath caught in my throat.
The destruction was absolute. Not the chaotic mess of a typical burglary, but something deliberate and methodical—a message written in the language of violated privacy.
My couch had been slashed open, white stuffing spilling out like entrails. The bookshelves lay toppled, my modest collection scattered and trampled. Even the framed photo of my academy graduation had been smashed, glass ground into the carpet as if to erase that moment of pride.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered, the words escaping on a shaky exhale.
I took a step forward, glass crunching beneath my boots. The destruction continued into the kitchen—dishes pulled from cabinets and shattered across the floor, the refrigerator door hanging open with its contents emptied and stomped. They'd even taken a knife to my dining table, gouging deep furrows into the wood.
This wasn't a robbery. Nothing appeared to be missing—just destroyed. This was a warning. A threat.
My eyes moved to the walls, and the air froze in my lungs. Bold, jagged letters in red spray paint covered the previously bare walls of my living room: "BACK OFF" screamed one message. "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS" demanded another. "LAST WARNING" threatened a third, the paint still looking wet, dripping down the wall like blood.
My legs felt suddenly unsteady. I reached for the back of a chair to stabilize myself, only to find it overturned and broken. These weren't random vandals. These were the poachers, the people who'd already tried to kill me once. They knew where I lived. They'd been inside my home.
I forced myself to keep moving, to assess the full extent of the damage. The bathroom mirror had been shattered, shards littering the sink and floor. In the bedroom, my clothes had been pulled from drawers and closets, many of them slashed with the same knife that had eviscerated my furniture. My mattress had been cut open, the bedding torn to ribbons.
But what made my blood truly run cold was the state of my home office. The small desk where I kept case files had been cleared with a single sweep, papers scattered across the floor. The files I'd been compiling on the poaching operation—witness statements, location coordinates, evidence logs—had been torn apart, many pages stomped on with muddy boots that left clear imprints. My laptop was missing, the only thing they'd bothered to take.
The message was crystal clear: they knew exactly what I was investigating, and they wanted me to stop.
The air in the apartment felt thick with malice, the smell of spray paint mingling with the scent of dirt and sweat left behind by the intruders. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. My safe space had been violated, transformed into something threatening.
