The coffee shops change, but he always picks one with two exits. He studies better with noise than silence. But not music. Ambient sound, overlapping conversations, the low hum of other lives continuing around him. He chooses seats with his back to walls as though he hates being cornered.
I can only imagine what will happen to him in that room if he has to stay too long.
He walks fast when he’s anxious, slower when he’s thinking. He’s easily distracted, and that makes him vulnerable. He hums under his breath like he needs something louder than his thoughts.
Online, he’s harder to map but just as consistent in his inconsistencies. He doesn’t overshare, but he leaves fingerprints everywhere. Metadata. Timestamps. Abandoned threads where he typed three paragraphs and deleted two. His interests spike and vanish—philosophy forums one week, obscure programming repositories the next, art archives at three in the morning when he can’t sleep.
Grief does that. Loss carves grooves they keep falling into.
He searches his father’s name often. Cross-references old papers. Rereads interviews. Tries to find meaning in decisions that have already been made. He chases answers he knows he won’t get.
I learned early that Cason Bellrose believes the world is fundamentally understandable, even when it’s cruel. That if you gather enough data, trace enough variables, you can eventuallymake sense of what happened.
That belief is going to hurt him.
On the monitor, he shifts again, breath hitching briefly before evening out. I lean back and watch the feed longer than necessary. He rolls onto his side, curls slightly inward, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.
By the time I grabbed him, I knew the way he takes his coffee, the cadence of his walk, the single rhythm every time he hums. Not a song, not any that I could name. Like it’s the very music his body makes, coming from somewhere so deep inside him that it’s not even a conscious beat. Like his very own custom pulse.
Cason doesn’t fit cleanly into any category of target I’ve been hired to capture or kill. He’s not reckless. Not naïve or desperate. He doesn’t have the sharp edges of someone who expects the worst, or the blind spots of someone who’s never been afraid.
He’s…hopeful.
That might be the most dangerous trait of all.
I check the time.
Maintain schedule.
I should probably feed him.
Like a damn dog.
I stand and head upstairs, unlocking the door at the top of the steps with my thumb pressed to a scanner. Everything on the ground floor appears normal compared to the basement. This place is one of several safehouses I own, tucked into a remote corner of Washington. I built the basement myself. In a few months, I’ll gut the place and rent it out for a year. Real estate is the best cover for owning several houses.
In the kitchen, I quickly make two sandwiches, adding a little extra mustard on Cason’s since I know he likes it.
Little things can provide just enough comfort that makes people less of a headache to deal with.
Heading back downstairs with the food, I make sure the door locks behind me before descending the steps. I set my plate on the desk and peer at the monitor. Cason is in the same position he was when I left.
Moving to his door, I unlock it with both a code and my thumbprint. There’s a beep, then a hydraulic hum as the latch retreats. I push the door open and freeze.
Cason isn’t in his bed.
For half a second, instinct tells me to look back at the monitor, but I already know exactly what happened. The little shit was already awake and heard the lock disengage before launching himself out of bed.
There’s only one place he could be.
Just as that realization hits, I’m caught off guard by the door swinging back at me. The force and shock cause me to stumble backward, the paper plate falling from my grip, the sandwich tumbling and spilling its contents onto the floor.
Cason bolts around the door from where he was hiding and shoves me harder than I expect, his shoulder slamming straight into my chest and knocking the breath from my lungs. His socks slip against the floor as he slides around me. I don’t make a move to grab him, instead taking the time to catch my breath and calm the rage that’s flaring hot from being taken by surprise.
Tomorrow, I’m handcuffing him to the bed so I can flip this fucking door around.
I turn in the doorway in time to see Cason clumsily climbing the stairs, tripping and swaying and having to use his hands to right himself. Taking a slow, deep inhale, I watch him crash into the door at the top of the steps.
Blowing all the air out through my nose, I take my gun out of its holster. I hold it loosely at my side as I continue staring at him while he attempts to open the door.
