I stumbled backward toward the door, suddenly unable to remain inside these walls. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead and down my spine.
I'd faced dangerous situations before—it was part of the job—but this felt different. More personal. More threatening. They'd been here, in my space, touching my things, leaving their filth behind.
Once back in the hallway, I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. I needed to call it in, to report the break-in officially. But my hands moved on autopilot, pulling my phone from my pocket and scrolling to a different number. Not the sheriff. Not dispatch.
Harlow.
I pressed the call button before I could think better of it. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Each ring stretched like an eternity.
"Dan?" His deep voice finally came through the line, immediately steadying something wild and panicked inside me. Just hearing him say my name made the hallway feel less threatening.
"Someone broke in and ransacked my apartment," I said, my voice sounding hollow and distant to my own ears. "It's completely destroyed. Threatening messages everywhere."
There was a beat of silence, followed by muffled voices on the other end—Harlow telling someone, probably Knox or Ransom, what had happened.
"We're on our way," he responded, his tone protective and certain. "Stay outside. Don't go back in there alone."
The simple command nearly broke my composure. Something about Harlow taking charge, about knowing he was coming for me, made my throat tighten painfully.
I'd spent so long handling everything alone, being the strong one, the one others relied on. Having someone step in, someone who wanted to protect me rather than just expect things from me, hit me in places I didn't know were vulnerable.
"Okay," I managed, the single word embarrassingly thick with emotion.
"Ten minutes," Harlow promised. "Maybe less. Knox is getting the truck. We're coming."
After ending the call, I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, the gym bag with the surveillance equipment clutched to my chest like a shield. My shallow breathing echoed in the empty hallway. I kept looking toward the stairwell, half-expecting to see the intruders returning to finish what their warning had started.
The building suddenly felt like a trap. Any noise—the distant hum of the ancient elevator, the creak of floorboards, the whisper of air through the ventilation system—made me flinch. My training told me to secure the scene, to call it in properly, tostart documenting the evidence. But some deeper instinct kept me frozen in place, waiting for Harlow.
I wiped cold sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, noticing the tremor that hadn't subsided. The trembling wasn't just in my hands—it had worked its way deep inside me, a vibration of fear and violation that seemed to rattle my bones.
Another glance at my open apartment door, at the destruction visible from my position in the hallway, sent a fresh wave of cold reality washing over me. These people were serious. They weren't just trying to scare me off—they were showing me exactly how vulnerable I was, how easily they could reach me.
And if they could reach me, they could reach anyone I cared about.
The thought of Harlow in danger because of me made my stomach clench painfully. But even that couldn't override the selfish relief I felt knowing he was on his way. Whatever happened next, I wouldn't be facing it alone.
The elevator felt too exposed, too trapped, so I took the stairs down to the ground floor, the gym bag clutched tightly against my chest. Each footstep echoed in the stairwell, making me flinch and look over my shoulder.
They'd been in my apartment, touching my things, leaving threats on my walls. They could still be nearby, watching, waiting. I burst through the exit door into the chilly night air, eyes scanning the parking lot with frantic intensity. Nothing moved in the shadows between the parked cars. No unusual shapes, no waiting figures. Just the ordinary nighttime stillness of a small-town apartment complex.
I moved toward my truck in a half-jog, keys already in hand, finger on the remote to unlock it from a distance. The beep and flash of lights felt too loud, too visible. I threw the gym bag onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel in one fluid motion, immediately locking the doors again with a reassuring thunk.
Only then did I reach into the glove compartment and retrieve my service weapon, checking it with practiced hands before securing it in my holster. The weight against my side was instantly comforting, a counterbalance to the fear still coursing through my system.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading in the opposite direction from the McKenzie farm. The street lights cast pools of yellow against the asphalt, creating a rhythm of light and dark as I drove. My mind raced faster than my truck, connecting dots I'd been too slow to see before.
The timing wasn't coincidental. The truck that had shone its high beams on Harlow and me in the driveway. The methodical destruction of my apartment. The specific threats on my walls. They knew. They knew about the McKenzies. They knew about Harlow.
A cold, sick feeling spread through my gut as the implications sank in. By involving Harlow and his family in my investigation, I'd painted targets on their backs. These weren't ordinary criminals—these were people who had already tried to kill me once. People who wouldn't hesitate to hurt anyone connected to me if it meant protecting their operation.
"God damn it," I muttered, slamming my palm against the steering wheel.
I turned onto Main Street, which was nearly deserted at this hour. A single car passed going the opposite direction, its headlights momentarily blinding me. I blinked away the afterimage, checking my mirrors again.
That's when I saw them—headlights behind me, maintaining a consistent distance. They'd been there since I left my apartment building, I realized with a jolt. Not close enough to be obvious, but never turning off, never falling behind.
I made a sudden right turn onto Cedar Lane, watching my mirror intently. The headlights followed, still maintaining thatcareful distance. Not a coincidence. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead as I accelerated slightly, then made another turn. The headlights remained.
