"This man," I confirm, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "You're certain?"
She nods. "That's why I left Seattle. I was afraid..." She trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. Afraid he'd recognize her. Afraid he'd silence her.
"Have you told anyone else about recognizing him?" I ask urgently.
"Just the Seattle shelter coordinator. That's why they sent me here—said it wasn't safe there anymore."
My mind races through implications. If Miranda can identify Hargrove as directly involved in trafficking operations, she's not just a survivor—she's a witness. A liability.
"We should talk to Maggie," I say, trying to mask my growing concern. "This information could be important."
As I move to stand, Miranda grabs my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "They'll kill me if they find me. You understand that, right? Men like him—they don't let people like us talk."
I cover her hand with mine. "I understand better than most. But you're not alone anymore."
Throughout the afternoon, I can't shake the sense of being watched. Twice I catch glimpses of a dark sedan parked across from the shelter, gone each time I try to get a better look. My instincts—honed through years of captivity where noticing details meant survival—scream that something isn't right.
Without alerting the residents, I casually check the shelter's security measures. Window locks secure. Doors properly reinforced. Panic buttons installed at strategic locations. All standard protections, but would they be enough against professionals?
When Maggie steps out for a meeting with social services, I seize the opportunity to call the clubhouse from the shelter's office phone.
"Falcon," his voice answers on the second ring, alert and focused.
"It's Cara," I say, keeping my voice low. "Something's not right at the shelter. I think we're being watched."
The line goes silent for a beat. "Details."
"Dark sedan, tinted windows. Circling the block. And I met a resident—Miranda—who can identify Hargrove directly from her time in captivity. She has information that could connect him to trafficking operations in Seattle and Burns Harbor."
"How solid is her identification?"
"Very. She saw him multiple times, including with political figures. She's scared, Falcon. And she has reason to be."
I hear him issuing muffled instructions to someone nearby before returning to our call. "Stay inside. Keep everything normal. I'm sending Zip and Hustler to do surveillance, but they'll stay invisible unless needed."
Relief washes through me at his immediate response. "Thank you."
"Cara." His voice drops slightly. "If anything feels wrong—anything at all—get everyone to the safe room and call me immediately."
"I will," I promise.
"Your instincts kept you alive for five years," he reminds me. "Trust them now."
After we disconnect, I debate whether to tell Miranda about my concerns. Ultimately, I decide against it—she's frightened enough already. Instead, I focus on completing her paperwork while developing a mental contingency plan should things deteriorate.
By the time evening approaches, Maggie has returned, and I've discreetly briefed her on my concerns. To her credit, she takes them seriously without creating panic among the residents.
"You should head back to the clubhouse," she suggests as dinner preparations begin in the kitchen. "I've got overnight staff arriving within the hour."
Logic agrees with her, but something deeper—that same instinct Falcon referenced—urges me to stay. "I'd like to remain tonight, if that's okay. Help with dinner, get to know the routines better."
She studies my face, reading between the lines. "This is about Miranda."
"Partly," I admit. "And partly because I'm not ready to leave yet."
After a moment's consideration, she nods. "Guest room upstairs is available. But Cara—we have protocols, security measures. You don't need to take this on yourself."
"I know," I assure her, though the weight of responsibility settles across my shoulders nonetheless. "I just want to help."
