The truth of it filled the room—the woman Sara had fought for was here now, laid out in labeled fragments.
And whoever took Lauren—whoever kept her—now had Sara.
Cade’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “Then you know your window,” she said. “Whoever he is, he plans. He stores. He stages.”
She stripped off one glove, the snap loud in the quiet.
“He’s not done until he decides he’s done.”
Tessa’s gaze stayed fixed on the table.
Then we find whoever did this, she thought. And we find Sara before he writes her last chapter.
Scout swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a scrape. “God help her.”
Burke stepped forward and set a hand on Scout’s shoulder—leaving it there a moment longer than usual, a wordless anchor between men who didn’t have language for fear.
Tessa drew in one slow breath, then another, forcing her mind back into motion.
“Alright,” she said quietly. “We know who she is. Now we find out who kept her—and where he’s keeping Sara.”
She looked at Burke, then Scout—steady, decisive.
“Pull every connection between Lauren Pierce and Sara’s notes,” she said. “Faculty. Staff. Campus access. Start with Raines, Keller, and Sinclair—today.”
The room didn’t get any warmer.
But at least it started to move again.
11
The Watcher — Behind the Hardware Store 10 Hours Before Sara Was Taken
Behind the hardware store, the alley stayed damp and forgotten—half-shadowed even in daylight. A dumpster sat against the brick wall, its lid cocked like it never shut all the way. Warped pallets leaned in uneven stacks beside the roll-up door. No one came back here unless they had to. That was the point.
He stepped over a shallow puddle and stopped at the service entrance. The metal door was scarred with old paint drips, the handle loose enough to rattle if you weren’t careful. He was careful.
Inside, the air shifted—cooler, darker, smelling faintly of dust and machine oil. The building settled around him with quiet clicks, like it was used to keeping secrets.
He moved down a narrow corridor past stacked buckets and shelves of stock, his footsteps swallowed by concrete. The storage room sat at the end, its door warped from humidity.
He pushed it open.
A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a weak yellow coneof light. A mop leaned in the corner. A coil of extension cord. A broken dolly with one wheel missing.
And on the wall—A hook. A ring of keys.
Four apartment keys on a faded tag marked UPSTAIRS, plus the master key the old man downstairs kept “for emergencies.”
The landlord’s version of responsibility. The tenant’s version of vulnerability.
He lifted the ring and listened.
Nothing.
No footsteps overhead. No voices.
Good.
