Last night’s footage sat paused on the second monitor—three hours of her lying there before her body finally surrendered. He didn’t need to replay it. He remembered the shape of every exhale.
She was learning, though. He could see it in the way her gaze kept drifting to the notebook on the desk. The way her fingers flexed, restless, as if reaching for a pen that wasn’t there.
Good.
He preferred students who wanted to participate.
Hiding Lauren’s journal under her pillow had been a charming touch. As if cotton could keep anything from him. As if he hadn’t read every word long before she arrived.
He adjusted the camera angle by a fraction, centering her face. Not because he needed to see her better—he already knew every expression she made when she thought she was alone—but because framing mattered. Story always did.
Outside, somewhere beyond concrete and insulation and deliberate distance, a train sounded its whistle.
Ten o’clock.
Right on time.
He smiled.
Patterns calmed people. Gave them something to hold onto. Lauren had clung to the whistle, too, back when she still believed sound could locate her in the world.
Sara was sharper. That always made it more satisfying.
He had revised stronger women than her.
They all broke eventually.
He reached for the notebook beside him and made a single, neat notation.
Subject progressing. Resistance intact. Identification with prior subject confirmed. Promising.
Tomorrow, he would give her a choice.
He always did.
And when she made the wrong one—as they always did—he would correct.
Edits.
21
The Grady Cabin — Next Morning
The light that crept through the flannel curtains wasn’t morning so much as a thinning of the dark. The storm hadn’t cleared; it had only caught its breath. Wind moved across the ridge in long, uneven gusts, rattling the stovepipe before falling quiet again.
Scout was already awake, crouched by the hearth. The coals had sunk to a dull red glow, but he coaxed them back, feeding in kindling, his motions steady and sure. Smoke threaded up the flue, warmth slowly creeping through the room.
Tessa stirred on the bed, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Her head ached where the bandage pressed her temple. The smell of woodsmoke and coffee pulled her the rest of the way awake.
“What time is it?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Scout said. “Clouds haven’t lifted since last night.” He glanced toward the window. “Burke won’t make it up here yet—he’ll be taking care of Sylva first: roads, the old folks, power outages.”
“Thatsounds like him.” She pushed herself upright. “He’ll come when he can.”
“He knows we’re fine,” Scout said. “Knows better than to waste fuel fighting this ridge until it’s worth the trip.”
She drew the blanket tighter. “And he doesn’t know someone shot at us.”
