She shrugged out of her coat, reached for the hook?—
—and froze.
A potted violet sat on the table near the window. Fresh soil. A bead of water slid from one leaf and dropped silently onto the wood. Beside it lay a leather-bound journal.
The jolt hit hard enough to lock her in place.
Then she saw the real violation.
Her notepad. Gone.
The one filled with case notes—names, timelines, coordinates—everything they’d pieced together. The pen she’d been using lay diagonally across the bare space where the pad had been.
Training took over.
She eased her weapon from its holster and moved room to room, sweeping each corner.
“North Carolina SBI,” she called, low and steady. “If you’re inside, show yourself.”
Silence.
Then—
A soft creak from downstairs.
Her heart kicked once, hard. Grip tightening, she moved to the basement door and listened. No voices. No footsteps. Just the low hum of the heater.
She eased the door open with the barrel and swept the stairs—one step at a time, back to the wall, railing under her free hand. The air down there was colder, tinged with concrete and dust.
“North Carolina SBI,” she repeated. “Show yourself.”
Nothing.
She cleared the laundry room, checked behind the water heater, under the stairs.
Nothing.
Back upstairs, she swept the kitchen again. The living room. Closet. Bathroom. Every door. Every corner.
Clear.
Only then did she lower the weapon.
She nudged the basement door closed with her hip. The latch caught halfway, then slipped. The door rested against the frame but didn’t seat. She pressed the basement door closed harder this time. The latch clicked, but not convincingly.
She made a mental note.
Upstairs, the heater kicked on. Warm air pushed through the vents. The pressure shift made the loose latch give. The basement door eased open an inch, the hinge whispering thin and slow.
Houses breathed.
Her pulse refused to settle.
What if he’d waited in here for me?
What if he still is?
She forced the thought down. Holstered her weapon and picked up her phone.
