Kari doesn't move. A paintbrush hangs from her right hand. The expression on her face is one I've never seen — not fear, not anger. The blank, quiet face of someone who has just been shown that the thing they're building can be unmade by anyone, at any time, with nothing more than a sharp edge and access.
"When." My voice comes out wrong. Too controlled. "When did you finish this wall?"
"Yesterday afternoon." Her voice is flat. Steady. Terrible. "The paint was still tacky when we went upstairs."
Still tacky. Which means this was done overnight. While we were in bed. While I was — while we —
Someone entered this house last night. Passed the cameras, the pin locks, the deadbolts. Came into this room — one floor below the bedroom where Kari slept against my chest — and carved her name into wet plaster with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world.
Because I was distracted. Because for the first time since I took this assignment, I let the operative sleep and the man take over. This is what it cost.
"Liam." Her voice, quiet. She's looking at me now instead of the wall. "Your hands."
My fists are clenched so tight the tendons stand out along my forearms. The scar on the left one white against flushed skin.
I unclench them. One finger at a time. A deliberate, mechanical process that takes more effort than it should.
"I need to check the cameras."
"Okay."
"And call Vance."
"Okay."
"Kari—"
"Don't." Softly. The paintbrush drops to the tarp at her feet. "Don't tell me it's going to be fine. Don't tell me we'll catch him. Don't do the thing where you make it smaller so I can handle it." She looks back at the wall. At her name gouged into the plaster. "I can handle it at the size it actually is."
She walks past me. Up the stairs. The bedroom door closes. Not a slam — a click. Controlled. Deliberate. The quietmechanical sound of someone who won't give the situation the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart.
That click is the worst sound I've ever heard.
The cameras show nothing. Again.
Same blind spot. Same gap. Same ghost who walks through my security like it's decorative.
I call Vance again. Clipped sentences — vandalized wall, name carved, overnight entry, cameras defeated.
"He's inside the perimeter." Not a question.
"He has access. A route I haven't found. Something in the bones of this house I'm missing."
"Pull the building plans. The original blueprints should be on file with the city." A pause. "The name on the wall — that's not a scare tactic. That's a fixation. He's focused on her."
I know. The knowledge sits in my chest like a stone.
"He might have had access before you arrived. Before the cameras. Before any of it."
Margit's house. Three years empty. Plenty of time for someone to learn its secrets.
"I want Reese or Tanaka on standby." The words taste like a concession. "Not rotation. Backup."
A beat of surprise. Vance covers it well. "I'll make the call."
The line goes dead. On the counter, the mug Kari used this morning sits beside the sink, faint lip print on the rim.
She comes down after an hour.
