Vance picks up on the second ring. I lay it out — the letter, the timing, the chair, the surveillance details.
"What do you need?"
"Cameras. Four exterior, two interior. Motion-activated, feeds to my phone. Today."
"Done. What else?"
"Run Prescott & Yates against every property transaction in the county. Evie's pulling threads, but I want purchase records, permit applications, code complaints."
"You want a rotation? Reese or Tanaka by tonight."
My jaw tightens. The correct answer is yes.
"No. I've got it."
"If this escalates again, we're having a different conversation."
Cameras go up at every corner. One covering the front porch, one aimed at the cellar hatch, one watching the back door, one angled at the porch roof below Kari's window. Two interior: front hallway, kitchen. Every feed routes to my phone.
Ground-floor windows get pin locks — aluminum rods cut to length. The courier brought a window lock for Kari's bedroom. I install it with Gerald while she sits on the bed behind me.
The silence between us has a texture. Dense. Pressurized.
"You're scaring me."
My hand stills on the trigger. "Good."
"Not the stalker. You."
The drill bit is halfway into the frame. My reflection stares back — gray eyes, set jaw. Not the boyfriend who holds her hand at the hardware store. The operative.
"This version of you," she says. "I haven't seen it before."
"This is the version that keeps you alive."
She flinches. Small. I catch it the way I catch everything about her now — involuntarily, compulsively.
I finish the lock. Test it twice. Turn around.
Kari sits cross-legged on the yellow bedspread. Chin up. That stubborn, impossible chin.
"You left this morning without telling me where you were going."
"I was following a lead on Prescott & Yates."
"And while you were out, someone walked into my house. Sat in my kitchen. Read my schedule off a piece of paper like a grocery list."
"That's why I'm installing cameras."
"That's why you should have told me." She's on her feet. "I'm not a client, Liam."
"You are, though."
The words come out before I can stop them. Her expression shifts — hurt, then fury, then something walled off that's worse than both.
"Right. I'm the job."
"You're not the job." My voice drops. Rough. "That's the problem."
