Page 131 of What We Burn

“I know. It’s just⁠—”

I pick up a slice and take a bite while he watches. He nods, satisfied, and turns to leave.

“Dad.”

He stops at the door.

“What would you do if someone was threatening Mom?”

Gene turns. His face does something complicated—a rearrangement of features that settles into an expression I can only describe as careful.

“Whatever your mother wanted me to do.”

“Okay, Dad. Thanks.”

He nods once and closes the door.

I stare at the banana loaf. Eat another slice.

FENRIR:

I want to try something. The spoofed number uses Davis’s actual carrier account as the display mask. The account is still active because nobody’s reported him dead. If I access the carrier’s backend, I can see inbound authentication requests from the spoofing service. That won’t give us the sender, but it’ll give us the platform. And if I can crack the platform...

Me:

You get the account that’s using it.

FENRIR:

Theoretically.

Me:

I love it when you say theoretically. It means you’ve already figured out how to do it and you’re managing my expectations so I’ll be impressed when you deliver ahead of schedule.

FENRIR:

Underpromise, overdeliver.

Me:

Do it, you sexy thing.

I close the channel and sit in the hum of the servers. The data’s running. Fenrir’s hunting. The timestamps haven’t given us a name or a face. What they’ve given us is worse: the knowledge that he’s watching her. Her hours are his hours now. When she moves, he knows.

We’ve been looking for Stephen in the dark corners of the internet. The forums. The encrypted platforms. The places where bad men hide.

But a man who reshuffled his whole pattern the week she went back to work isn’t hiding in the dark. He’s closer. Folded into it somewhere we haven’t thought to look.

We’re all over her immediate vicinity. So that means he’s either outside it with a fucking telescope, or watching inside it digitally. My gut feels hollow at the thought.

I fill it with banana bread, a soggy cookie, and peppermint tea.

Then I close the laptop. Pack up.

At the top of the basement stairs, I stop. There’s still a light on in the kitchen.

Mom is at the table. Silk robe, reading glasses, a steaming mug in front of her. She’s not reading. She’s sitting with her hands folded, looking at the sliding glass door, and in the reflection I can see her face, free of makeup and those mask sheets she likes to sleep in because they make her skin all “glowy.”