Page 66 of Monk

Then the driver’s side door opened.

A man stepped out and started toward me.

Tall. Maybe mid-forties. Dark suit, no tie. Clean-shaven. Composed. There was nothing hurried in the way he moved, nothing uncertain. He walked like a man who expected to be listened to, and something about that calm confidence sent a cold ripple through me.

I rolled my window down halfway, my hand already moving toward my phone before I consciously decided to reach for it. Instinct. Protection. A line drawn before he ever opened his mouth.

“Can I help you?” I called out, my voice sharper than I felt, clipped and professional in the way it always got when I needed distance.

He stopped a few feet from my car and smiled.

It was the kind of smile that did nothing to reassure me.

“Carolina Wilcox?” he asked.

My blood ran cold.

There was something uniquely unsettling about hearing your full name from a stranger standing at the mouth of your driveway before dawn. Not because the information was impossible to get, but because of what it implied: that he hadn’t ended up here by accident. He had come looking forme. And suddenly the space inside my car felt too small, the air too thin. My skin went cold even as heat climbed up the back of my neck. I had spent years building a life that felt solid, ordinary, protected. In one sentence, he made it feel frighteningly reachable.

“Who’s asking?” I said.

He ignored the question so smoothly it felt deliberate.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said, almost casually. “About your connection to the Diamondback Motorcycle Club.”

My heart slammed once, hard enough to hurt.

In an instant, every thought narrowed to one thing:Tatum is in that house.The realization hit with such force it was almost physical. I could practically see her in my mind—small, warm, half-asleep, safe only because she did not yet know there was any reason not to be. A wild, protective panic rose in me so fast I had to lock my jaw to keep it from showing on my face. Whatever this man wanted, whatever game he thought he was playing, he was doing it within reach of my child. That changed everything.

I didn’t look toward the farm. I didn’t dare. I kept my eyes on him and made myself breathe through the panic trying to climb up my throat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and I was proud of how even my voice sounded despite the fear slicing through me. “And you’re blocking my driveway. I suggest you move your vehicle before I call the police.”

His smile widened slightly, as if the threat amused him more than it concerned him.

“The police,” he repeated. “That’s interesting. Considering you just spent the night at a known criminal organization’s clubhouse.”

Heat flashed through me then—fear burning fast into anger.

Not because of the accusation. Because he knew where I had been.

Because that meant he had been watching.

Me.

Or John.

Or both.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the leather creaked under my grip.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded. The lawyer in me snapped fully into place then, sharp and cold and furious. “Show me your identification. Right now.”

He tilted his head, studying me as if I were something on a slide under glass.

“What’s your relationship with John Smith?”

The question hit harder than I wanted it to.