Just wind sliding through the pines.
Someone had been on his porch.
Scout holstered and pulled gloves from his pocket. His hands were steady now.
He crouched and picked up the envelope like it might bite.
No name. No address. No stamp.
He opened it carefully.
A single sheet of paper slid out—typed, clean, centered.
Wrong man, Scout.
Try again.
You have 72 hours.
After that… I finish the story.
For a beat, he didn’t move.
Then his gaze dropped to the letters themselves.
The font wasn’t modern. Not printer-perfect. Old, with thetriding a little higher than the rest.
The Royal.
The typewriter.
He slid out the second item.
A photo.
Tessa.
Alive.
At a desk, hands on the keys. Shoulders drawn tight. Face pale with exhaustion.
Not looking at the camera.
He stared at her until the edges of the world blurred, then forced himself to look past her.
Plain cream walls. Book shelves.
He took it in fast, storing every line and shadow because it all mattered.
The letter and photo went back into the envelope. He tucked it into his jacket like a shield.
Sleep was out for tonight.
Not until she was safe.
The engine turned over and he ripped out of the drive.
As the cabin disappeared into the dark, fear settled deep inside him.
