He found her unconscious in her own bed.
In her own home.
A place meant to be safe.
The intruder had been watching her for months.
Let himself into her room while she slept.
Stood over her.
Touched her.
Violated the boundary of safety so completely that I can barely process it.
Lucky… Jesus.
I force myself to read further, even though every sentence feels like a blade dragging across my ribs.
I push back from the desk, shutting the laptop with more force than I intend, because the details—every vile, intimate line—are turning my stomach.
It’s not just anger; it’s something darker, something that coils tight and cold in my spine. The words feel venomous on my tongue, poisoning every breath.
What he did to her isn’t just a crime.
It’s a trespass so profound it reeks of evil.
And she went through all of it alone.
I pick up my phone.
I don’t think—I act. Training slots into place, clean and mechanical, because when a pattern forms, instinct takes over. And my instinct is screaming.
I call Adam Perkins, a mate from service days, now at the Bureau.
He answers on the third ring. “Ethan? Christ, haven’t heard from you in months.”
“I need intel,” I say. My voice is a blade—cold edge, no room for argument. “New client. Private job.”
Lucky isn’t my client.
But I can’t say what she is. Not out loud. Not yet.
“Name?” Adam asks.
I hesitate.
Then force it out. “Lucky Vale. Seven years ago. Intruder case.”
A low whistle hisses through the line. “That one. Thought she vanished off the map.”
“Details.”
He doesn’t argue. He knows my tone too well.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
The call ends.
