We know where you are. The story dies with you.
The sound that comes out of me isn’t civilized. It’s not the controlled growl I use around Sloane, the one I can modulate and soften. This is deep and primal and it makes the dishes on the counter rattle.
Someone was here, feet away from my female. Close enough to photograph her through the window while she worked, follow her on a thirty-minute drive-thru run and know our routines, schedules and blind spots.
While I slept with her in my arms and Zoe slept upstairs with Loki.
While I thought we were safe.
“Jonus?” Sloane’s voice is sharp. She’s sitting up on the couch, laptop forgotten. “What is it?”
My hands are shaking. The photos start to crumple in my fists. I force my fingers to relax. Evidence. These are evidence. Don’t destroy them.
My fist hits the wall before I can stop it. Plaster cracks in a spiderweb pattern. Not a hole—I pulled the punch at the last second—but close. My knuckles sting and I welcome the pain. It gives me something to focus on besides the red edges of my vision.
“Jonus.” Sloane raises her voice. “Show me,” she orders.
I grunt in response and bring the photos to her and lay them on the couch beside her. Watch her face as she processes each one.
My brave female doesn’t gasp or cry. She handles them by the edges—fingerprints, evidence—and studies them with the clinical assessment of a woman who’s been in dangerous situations before. This is her journalist mode. I’ve seen thisbefore, when she talked about the compound, the guards, the pit. She compartmentalizes and analyzes.
“Telephoto lens,” she says. “Professional quality. This isn’t some cartel thug with a cell phone camera. Aldridge hired a professional surveillance team.” She examines the drive-thru photo more closely. “This was yesterday. They followed us. Or they were already in position.”
“They were already in position.” My voice comes out flat and dangerously calm. “They’ve been watching for days.”
She exhales. “They found us.” Then she picks up her phone. “I’m alerting my group chat.”
I’m already on the phone calling my uncle. “Someone left surveillance photos on the front porch,” I tell him. “They know she’s here.”
A beat of silence. Then my uncle’s voice, low and deadly calm. “We’re coming over.”
Then I put out a text in our Irontree group chat letting them know what happened. This group chat includes all of us in Truckee, plus Keric who’s relocated back to Maine, and it includes Kelt.
Three minutes later there’s a knock—two sharp raps, then one, our agreed signal—and I open the door to Dane and Laurie.
The eldest Irontree and scans the room the way he’s scanned every room since I was a boy. His gaze lands on the cracked wall, then on me, then on Sloane on the couch. He doesn’t comment on the wall.
Laurie moves straight to Sloane. “Are you alright, honey?” She sits beside her on the couch and takes her hand. Not hovering, not fussing—just present. The way she’s always been for everyone in this family.
“I’m fine,” Sloane responds. “Mad, mostly.”
“Good. Mad is useful.” Laurie squeezes her hand and stays right where she is.
Dane picks up the photos from the counter, studying each one with the careful attention of a male who has lived through threats before. “Professional work,” he says quietly. “Not amateurs.”
“That’s what I said,” Sloane calls from the couch.
Dane glances at her with something like approval, then turns to me. “You’ve called Aldar?”
“He’s on his way back. And Kelt is standing by for a call.”
“Good.” He sets the photos down carefully. “Let’s wait for Aldar and then we talk strategy. All of us.”
While we wait for Aldar, I pace. I can’t sit still. Every pass by the window I fight the urge to rip the curtains shut and barricade the doors and carry Sloane to the safe room and stand guard. Dane stands near the kitchen, arms crossed, watching the street through the window with an expression that reminds me why no one has ever successfully threatened an Irontree without consequences.
Laurie remains beside Sloane on the couch, talking softly with her. At some point she gets up and makes tea for both of them without being asked.
Finally Sloane’s phone buzzes. She glances at it and something fierce crosses her face.
