She set Lauren’s volume down, opened a fresh one, and turned to the back—near the end, where he’d be least likely to look first. He’d read it eventually; men like this always circled back to their own experiments. But later was enough. She only needed a head start.
She uncapped the pen.
Special Agent Tessa Quinn — Day 1
Status: Alive. Drugged, moved, redressed (cashmere set, bare feet). Hair brushed out; foreign scrunchie on right wrist. Door: pocket; no handle inside. Skylights: frosted; light-controlled. Speaker system hidden; subject monitoring in real time. Message: Eat. Rest. Write. “Story is your freedom.”
Assessment: Not ransom. Ideological captivity. Offender positions victims as authors within a controlled environment. Prior subjects: Lauren Pierce, Deputy Sara Parker (status unknown). Action: Observe. Decode ritual. Use pages as evidence, not confession.
“You think you’re writing my story,” she murmured, barely more than a whisper. “We’ll see.”
She pictured Scout on the porch, his hand settling at her waist like something he’d finally stopped fighting. Burke when bad news landed—quiet, iron-steady. Kyle, stubborn, refusing to leave a scene.
Then she bent over the page and began to write anyway.
36
Scout — Cloud Gap Cabin
The cabin looked different in the late afternoon light. Scout killed the engine and sat for a moment, the hush of wind in the pines broken by the bright, wrong flutter of crime-scene tape. It all felt off—coming here again, with Tessa missing and Sara found in her place.
He climbed the steps, punched in the keypad code, and slipped inside.
Wine glass on the counter. Her tote by the table. Laptop closed. Tagged.
“Tallulah?” he called softly.
Silence.
He moved deeper into the living room. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s Scout.”
A faint rustle behind the couch—then a low, offended mrrrp.
He crouched, peering into shadow. Tallulah’s narrow face, eyes huge, ears half-flattened—every inch of her screaming uncertainty.
“There you are,” he murmured. “Hell of a night, huh?”
She watched him, sides fluttering with quick, shallow breaths.
Scout droppedto the floor, forearms braced. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just here to get you somewhere safe. She’d want that. So do I.”
He stretched one hand out, palm up. “Come on. I know you know my voice—caught you sniffing my boots, more than once.”
A wary meow.
A pinprick of anger—at how unfair this was, how helpless he felt—cut through him.
“You and me—we’re waiting on her to come home.”
After a long moment, Tallulah crept forward and sniffed his fingertips, her fur still bristling but the panic easing.
“That’s it,” he said softly. “Brave girl.”
One practiced motion—and he scooped her up like he’d done it a hundred times. She yowled, claws snagging his shirt, but didn’t fight.
“Easy,” he soothed, clutching her close. She smelled like Tessa—clean, faint perfume. The loss scraped raw.
He gathered her food tin, toys—including the duck Tessa bought—dishes, and the carrier by the door. She let out a final mewl as he eased her inside.
