Ciaran exhales slowly, eyes narrowing as he studies the line. “That matches.”
“It matches too well,” I reply.
He looks at me now, and his expression is different than before. Less skepticism, more discomfort.
“Only certain people know these routes,” he says.
“Then only certain people can exploit them,” I answer.
The cabin feels smaller with that implication hanging between us. The air smells like coffee gone cold and pine sap bleeding from the trees outside.
Ciaran picks up the binder again. “Bring it to Alden.”
I slide my tablet into my bag, then tuck the binder under my arm. My shoulder protests, but I keep my face neutral. Ciaran notices anyway, because he has the kind of attention that does not miss details.
“You should have slept,” he says.
“I will sleep when the thing trying to kill me stops,” I reply.
He looks like he wants to argue, then decides it will waste time.
We drive to the estate in tense quiet, the road winding uphill through dense timber. The trees crowd close, dark trunks and sharp shadows, and the sun barely reaches the ground beneath the canopy. Ciaran keeps his hands steady on the steering wheel, eyes scanning the road as if a deer might step out again.
When we reach the front doors, two men in dark clothing watch us approach. Their posture is straight, their attention sharp, and their eyes flick to the binder I’m carrying.
Ciaran does not acknowledge them. He leads me through the foyer and down the corridor to Alden’s office without slowing. The estate smells like cedar, smoke, and something metallic beneath it, like old iron embedded in stone.
Ciaran knocks once.
“Come in,” Alden’s voice calls.
Ciaran opens the door, and I step inside.
Alden is behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair slightly disheveled like he has been running his hands through it. He looks up as I enter, and his gaze lands on my shoulder before it returns to my face.
The moment lasts barely a second, but it is still enough to heat my skin.
“What is it,” he asks, voice calm.
I set the binder on his desk and place my tablet beside it. My fingers brush the desk wood, then steady, because my pulse is doing something irritating.
“I found patrol gaps,” I say. “Deliberate ones.”
Alden’s eyes flick to Ciaran.
Ciaran nods once. “She mapped the logs.”
Alden gestures with two fingers. “Show me.”
I turn the tablet toward him and pull up the overlay. Patrol routes crisscross the map in tight lines, except for the narrow lane I circled in red.
“This section opens every third rotation,” I say. “Ten to twelve minutes, consistently.”
Alden leans forward slightly, bracing a hand on the desk. The motion brings him closer to the screen, and the faint scent of pine and smoke follows him. My attention catches on the line of his forearm and the controlled tension in his posture before I drag it back to the map.
“It should not open,” he says quietly.
“It does,” I reply.
