8
ETHAN
The house is quiet at 2 AM, shadows stretching across darkened rooms as I make my final security sweep. The canyon is silent, blanketed in moonlight, and for once, the tension that's clung to the air since we arrived feels subdued. Not gone, but gentler. Like the house itself is holding its breath.
It's been twenty-four hours since Jade's mother's unwelcome appearance, twenty-four hours of tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
I move silently through the main floor, checking doors, windows, monitoring systems. The new security upgrades I installed earlier this week are working perfectly: motion sensors, reinforced locks, additional cameras covering previously blind spots. From a technical standpoint, the house is now a fortress. Order in the chaos. It's something I've always relied on.
But technology can only do so much when the threat comes dressed as family.
Yesterday's confrontation between Jade and her mother replays in my mind as I walk. The cold fury in Jade's voice. The hurt barely concealed beneath it. The way she'd looked at her mother like she was facing an enemy, not flesh and blood.
Our conversation afterward had been brief, clinical. I'd relayed what Catherine told us about the note, no way to identify the sender, the same menacing message: "Tell Little Doll I'm coming home." Jade had listened with that carefully constructed mask in place, asking precise questions, revealing nothing of the turmoil I knew had to be churning beneath the surface.
She'd maintained that composure throughout our meeting, only the slight tremor in her hands betraying her distress. Then she'd excused herself, retreated to her room, and we'd barely seen her since.
As I approach the kitchen, I notice a sliver of light beneath the door. Jade's awake. This has happened the past few nights. I push the door open quietly, unsurprised to find Jade seated at the island counter, laptop open before her. She startles when she notices me, quickly closing her laptop with a snap that seems overly defensive.
"Sorry," I say casually. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She forces a small smile. "Just going over some photos." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Making your rounds?"
"Last check before I turn in," I confirm, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, the slight pallor to her skin. She hasn't been sleeping. "You'reup late."
"Couldn't sleep," she says with a dismissive shrug. "Just catching up on some work."
The abrupt way she closed her laptop suggests otherwise, but I don't press. Client privacy is part of the job, even when my instincts tell me something's off.
"Couldn't sleep myself. Thought I'd make something. You want in?" I ask, moving toward the refrigerator without waiting for her answer.
She gestures vaguely to the stove across from her. "Mi kitchen es su kitchen."
I snort. "God help us all, Mateo's rubbing off on you."
I pull the milk from the fridge and reach for the cinnamon in the spice rack. "When I was a kid," I say casually, "my mother used to make warm milk with cinnamon when I couldn't sleep. Said it was the cure for nightmares, heartbreak, and insomnia."
"Does it work?" She sounds skeptical, but there's a hint of genuine curiosity beneath it.
"Every time." I pour milk into a small saucepan, add a stick of cinnamon, and set it on the stove to heat slowly. "Whenever I make this now, I add a splash of bourbon."
As soon as I say it, I regret it. Her stint in rehab flashes in my mind. And here I am casually talking about booze.
But before I can backpedal, she surprises me.
"It wasn't alcohol," she says quietly. "My rehab, I mean."
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I wasn't thinking."
To my surprise, she laughs. A short, bitter sound with no real humor in it. "You can mention alcohol, Mr. Cross. I'm not going to fall apart."
I hesitate, caught off guard by her directness. "I didn't mean to imply..."
"Yes, you did," she interrupts, but without heat. "Because you've read the tabloids. Seen the headlines. 'Ice Queen in Rehab.' 'Model Meltdown.' Whatever creative alliteration they came up with that week."
She isn't wrong. I've done my research on every client I take on, and Jade Sinclair was no exception. The difference is, I'm usually better at hiding what I know.
"The tabloids aren't known for their accuracy," I offer carefully, turning my attention back to the warming milk.
