I photograph it from three angles. Catalog the position, the orientation, the distance from the threshold. My hands are steady. Inside, Kari is singing something off-key to the toaster.
I bag the bird before she sees it. Walk the full perimeter. Check every camera angle on my phone.
The east-side blind spot. Same narrow gap where the photograph was delivered. Same eighteen inches of unmonitored porch.
Whoever left this knows my setup. My routine. The exact window between my last check and my first morning sweep.
I call Vance from the front yard, standing next to Gary, whose chipped-nose smile feels less amusing than usual.
"Cade." He finishes another conversation in a single word, then gives me his full attention. "Talk."
"Dead bird on the porch. Sparrow, arranged deliberately — wings fanned, body facing the front door. Centered on the welcome mat. Same blind spot."
"Escalation's accelerating. Notes, letter, photograph, now this. He's compressing the intervals."
"This isn't corporate pressure anymore, Vance. Corporate sends attorneys. This is personal."
"I know."
"I need you to move on Novak."
"Evie's building the profile. We can't?—"
"Vance." My voice drops. Not louder. Lower. "He was on this porch while she was sleeping."
Silence. The weight of a man deciding how much to acknowledge what he's hearing underneath the words.
"I'll push Evie to priority. Vehicle registration, known associates, rental history. If Novak has a base within sightline of Sycamore Lane, we'll find it."
"Today."
"Today." A pause. "Watch your line."
The call ends. Gary stares at me with his chipped-nose grin.
"Don't," I tell him.
Kari finds the wall at midday.
She's been working on the front parlor — the room where I slept my first two nights, before the bed arrangement dismantled professional distance entirely. Yesterday she finished the first coat. Soft blue-gray. She'd consulted Gerald about the color for twenty minutes before deciding.
I'm in the kitchen reviewing Evie's latest data dump when the sound comes.
Not a scream. Not a gasp. A single, sharp intake of breath, then silence. The kind of silence that's louder than breaking glass.
I'm in the parlor in four seconds.
Kari stands in front of the east wall. The one she'd stepped back from yesterday — yes, that's it, that's the one — talking to the room like it could appreciate the compliment.
The wall is ruined.
Gouges in the plaster — deep, deliberate, carved with something sharp. Not random vandalism. Letters. Jagged letters scraped through the fresh paint into the plaster beneath.
KARI.
Her name. Scratched into the wall she rebuilt with her own hands.
Plaster dust still on the floor.
