He’s staring at one file on the screen like it’s burned into him.
“I know this name.”
He opens it, his hands already steady in that controlled way that tells me he’s not steady at all.
Peter Swale.
Private residence. Williams Beach.
“Who is he?” I ask.
Deck doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he scrolls deeper, pulls another file, and the color in the room shifts with it.
“Retired businessman,” he says finally. “Owned the property for years. But that’s not what matters.”
He turns the tablet so I can see it properly.
My stomach drops before my brain catches up.
“Tell me you see it,” Deck says quietly.
I do.
And I hate that I do.
“Adrian knows him,” I say.
Silence hits the room like a slammed door.
Deck taps again, and the file projects onto the main screen so everyone can see it. Every head turns. Every voice dies.
“Peter Swale,” Deck says, his voice lower now. “Was one of Adrian’s patients. Five years of trauma counseling.”
Five years.
Long enough to build trust. Long enough to learn everything that matters without ever looking like a threat.
The realization of it burns into every fiber of my body. He didn’t just take Eli; he built a path to do it.
“He didn’t pick that location randomly,” Deck continues. “This has been planned for a long time.”
Not a panic move. Not a mistake. A system.
A route already walked.
A place already owned in all the ways that matter.
I grab my keys before anyone else speaks.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
The house sits alone at the end of a private road, the ocean crashing on one side and thick trees covering the other. The kind of place people come to disappear. The front door stands open, and that bothers me immediately.
“Clear it.”
Silas and Mack move first, checking every room while Deck and I follow behind. The house is silent. We clear the kitchen, the living areas, the upstairs rooms. Nothing. No Adrian. No Eli. No Finn. Just signs that someone had been here and left in a hurry. My jaw tightens. We’re close, I know we’re close. Silas’s voice cuts through the silence.
