Page 30 of Revival in Laurel Valley

A man in tactical gear approached the SUV, and Wyatt rolled down the window. “Agent Morrison, FBI. I’m coordinating the response team.”

Morrison looked every inch the federal agent—close-cropped hair going gray at the temples, eyes that had seen too much and forgotten none of it, the kind of stillness that came from absolute confidence in his training. He extended a hand to Grant through the window.

“I’ve been briefed on your situation,” Morrison said. “Caine’s got an impressive file. So do you, from what I’ve read. Detroit PD, twenty years, excellent record until internal affairs decided you were the problem instead of the solution.”

“Something like that,” Grant said.

“Well, tonight we make sure she answers for what she’s done. She’s not walking away from here.” Morrison pulled out a tablet, his movements economical. “We’ve been seeding information through channels we know she monitors. Made it look like local law enforcement let something slip about where you’re staying. Small-town cops who don’t know how to keep their mouths shut at The Alpine Room after a few beers.”

“Will she buy it?” Liza asked.

“She’ll be suspicious. She’s smart enough for that. But she’s also obsessed, and obsession makes people take risks they’d normally avoid.” Morrison’s expression was cold, professional. “She’s been hunting you for six months. She won’t pass up what looks like a clear shot, even if she suspects it might be a trap.”

Wyatt gathered the blueprints. “Come on. Let me show you the space.”

The fifth-floor hallway smelled like new construction—paint and drywall compound and the chemical tang of carpet adhesive. Their footsteps echoed on floors that had never known the weight of residents, the sounds of life. Empty condos stretched in both directions, dark behind their locked doors, waiting for buyers who would turn them into homes.

Wyatt led them to a unit in the center of the building, away from any exterior walls. The main living space was empty, just bare walls and pristine floors catching the last of the daylight through windows that faced an interior courtyard. But Wyatt moved past it to a room tucked into the heart of the unit.

No windows. Solid walls on all sides. A reinforced door that looked like it could withstand a battering ram. Inside, the space was maybe ten feet by twelve, lit by a single overhead fixture that cast harsh shadows into the corners.

“Safe room,” Wyatt said unnecessarily. “Hank said a buyer insisted on adding it. Reinforced walls, secure lock, a few emergency supplies.”

Grant saw the supplies stacked against one wall—cases of bottled water, boxes of energy bars, emergency blankets still in their plastic wrappers, a first aid kit that looked comprehensive. Everything you’d need to wait out a crisis. Nothing comfortable about any of it.

“There’s a tablet mounted here,” Wyatt said, pointing to a device fixed to the wall at eye level. “Shows feeds from twelve different cameras—exterior approaches, all three stairwells, the elevator, the model unit upstairs, the hallways on this floor and the one above. You’ll be able to see everything that happens without being exposed.”

Morrison appeared in the doorway. “My team is staging in units on the fourth and sixth floors. We’ve got snipers positioned on adjacent buildings with sight lines to every possible approach. The moment she enters this building, she’s in a box.”

“What about collateral damage?” Grant asked, the old training kicking in. “Other residents, late-night construction workers?”

“Building’s completely empty. Sales don’t close for another two weeks, and we’ve made sure the few early buyers know to stay clear of the entire block tonight. Hank’s got his construction crews working a different site.” Morrison checked his watch. “It’s six now. We expect her between eight and midnight. She’ll want darkness for cover.”

“Four to six hours,” Liza said quietly.

“We’ll be monitoring everything,” Morrison assured them. “You’ll have a radio for direct communication with the command center. Anything you need, anything you see that concerns you, you call it in.” He pulled a compact two-way radio from his vest and handed it to Grant. “And for what it’s worth—I’ve run operations like this dozens of times. This is solid. You’re as safe as we can make you.”

After Morrison and Wyatt left, their footsteps fading down the empty hallway, Grant and Liza stood in the small room and looked at each other. The overhead light was unforgiving, showing every line of strain on her face, every shadow of fear in her eyes.

“Well,” Liza said, her voice aiming for lightness and missing. “At least the accommodations include running water and climate control.”

Grant pulled her into his arms, needing the solid warmth of her, the proof that she was here and whole. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For all of it. For bringing this into your life, for putting you in danger, for⁠—”

“Stop.” She pulled back enough to look at him, and her eyes were fierce. “You didn’t bring this into my life. She did. And we’re handling it. Together.”

He kissed her because he couldn’t help it, because she was brave and stubborn and his, because they were standing in a windowless room waiting for a killer and she was still standing tall. The kiss was gentle despite the urgency he felt, tender despite the fear that lived in his chest like a fist.

When they pulled apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers. “When this is over⁠—”

“When this is over, we’re going to sleep for about twelve hours straight,” she said. “Then we’re going to figure out what comes next. The bakery, your job, our life. But first, we’re going to get through tonight.”

They settled on the floor with their backs against the wall, emergency blankets spread beneath them for padding against the concrete. The tablet glowed on the wall in front of them, showing a grid of camera feeds. The model unit above blazed with warm light, and Grant could see the silhouettes of decoys positioned near the windows—mannequins dressed in clothing that could be mistaken for people from a distance.

“It looks real,” Liza said, studying the feeds. “From outside, I’d believe someone was up there.”