Evan Lemaire didn’t stop after Emily. Hell, he didn’t even stop during the trial. And his newest victim nearly died.
He won’t correct course. He’ll test boundaries. He’ll push until something pushes back harder.
“He’ll only stop when he’s forced to stop,” I say.
Bastien nods once. No convincing needed. Just confirmation that we both see the pattern.
I set my glass down and say the words before I can change my mind. “How would you do it? Stop him, I mean.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays on mine—steady and intent—as he measures the exact moment curiosity tips into something more.
“You don’t get that answer unless you’re ready to cross a line. And once you do, there’s no coming back.”
I don’t blink or hesitate.
“I’ve crossed that line already. Last night. This morning. Sitting in that courtroom, knowing exactly what they did. Seeing them laugh as they walked away.”
The words surprise me with how steady they sound.
“I can’t unknow what I know about them, Bastien.”
Something shifts in him. He reaches for my hand, and his fingers close firmly around mine. “Then we’re in this together.”
And as his grip tightens, I understand what that really means—not just for Evan Lemaire, but for me.
My curiosity isn’t harmless. It’s a door, and I’ve just asked him to open it.
Bastien tugs on my hand. “Come with me.”
He leads me down the hall, and I follow without asking where we’re going.
He stops in front of a bookcase, but not the decorative kind with knickknacks and sentimental clutter. The shelves are filled with books I’m not sure he’s read.
He glances back at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Positive.”
He reaches past the shelf and presses something I wouldn’t have thought to look at. There’s a low mechanical click, and the bookcase shifts to reveal a narrow opening beyond it.
Cool air spills out.
The stairs descend, and the further down we go, the more the house above becomes a cover story.
A bunker waits at the bottom. There’s no attempt to soften it with rugs or art. No effort to pretend this room is anything other than what it is.
Metal shelves line one wall, stacked with equipment I recognize and things I don’t. Weapons. Gloves sealed in plastic. Cases labeled in his neat, methodical handwriting. Not chaos. Control.
Opposite them, screens. A collection of monitors glow in the low light, feeds cycling silently. Streets. Alleys. Doorways. Camera angles chosen with intention. My breath stills as recognition hits before I’m ready for it.
My house.
The front walk. The side gate. The alley behind it I neverconsidered a threat. The living room where I unwind. The kitchen where I am most like myself. The bedroom where I let my guard down completely.
I stop short.
Bastien doesn’t reach for me or try to explain. He just watches my face as the truth finishes assembling itself.
“I told you I was watching.” No apology. Just fact.
