"It was under the front door," he says.
The image is sharp. Taken from across the street — maybe a car, maybe the shadow between a couple of houses. The Foxglove's front porch in morning light. The rocking chair. Gary in the garden bed below, chipped nose aimed at the camera.
It shows me.
Standing on the porch this morning. Coffee in hand. Paint-streaked shirt, the hole in the left knee of my jeans. My face turned toward the street. The expression of a woman who slept badly but chose to stand in the sunlight anyway.
Timestamp in the bottom right. This morning. The exact hour I stood there while Liam checked feeds beside me.
They were watching while I told Gary not to start. While I decided to keep sanding. While I stood on Margit's porch and pretended I wasn't afraid.
My hands are shaking. The photograph trembles, my own face staring up at me. Liam's hand closes over mine — steadying, warm, the first time he's touched me on purpose outside the performance.
"They were right there," I whisper.
Six camera feeds, all green, all clear. Every lock engaged, every window pinned.
The photograph shakes in my hands, and the woman in it doesn't know she's being hunted.
Chapter 10
Liam
The footage shows nothing.
I've been scrubbing through every angle for an hour. Four exterior cameras. Two interior. Six feeds covering every approach to the Foxglove.
Nothing.
No shadow crossing the porch. No hand sliding a photograph under the door. Just the static glow of the porch light catching moths and the slow creep of darkness across the yard.
Whoever left that photo knew exactly where I put the cameras. Not approximately. Not a lucky guess. They knew the precise angles, the blind spots — the narrow sliver along the east side of the porch where the camera's field of view doesn't quite reach the door.
I installed those cameras yesterday.
My phone screen reflects in the dark kitchen window. Behind me, the house settles — the radiator's metallic tick, old joists adjusting, Kari's breathing drifting down the stairs. She fell asleep against the headboard with a book on her chest while I told her I needed to check the feeds one more time.
That was an hour ago.
There's nothing to find. That's the point. That's the message: I can reach her anytime I want.
My jaw locks. The photograph sits in a zip-lock bag on the counter next to the letter — both pieces of evidence that amount to the same thing: I'm not enough.
Vance answers on the second ring.
"The cameras got nothing. Whoever delivered the photo approached from the east side of the porch. Narrow gap in coverage — maybe eighteen inches. They'd have to know the exact placement."
"You installed those cameras yesterday," he says.
"Yes."
"And someone mapped the blind spots in under twenty-four hours."
"Or they watched me install them."
"Are you compromised?" No buildup. Just the blade.
"No."
