Page 81 of Knox

Photos taken every day since I’d first felt followed on the trail.

“He’s been stalking you since you got away the first time,” Knox said, his voice deadly quiet. Controlled rage simmered beneath each word. “Planning. Waiting for the right moment. Since the day we met at Mom’s shop.”

I worked to steady my breaths and forced myself to look more closely at the images. My panicked mind attempted to see past the fact I was in every photo and catalog the other details, in case there was something bigger to take away. Different locations, different times of day, different days. Methodical. Patient. Obsessed.

A crawling sensation spreading across my skin, instinct urging me to run.

“Knox.” Colton’s voice turned us back to the front room. He’d returned to the maps, using a small stick to lift the corner of one.

And there, underneath, was one final photo that sent a deluge of my silent tears free.

Claire Hawthorne stood outside Island Adventures, arms full of kayak paddles, smiling at something beyond the camera’s frame. Recent, judging by her clothes and the flowers blooming in the window boxes.

Probably only a month or so before her death.

“He was watching Mom too.” Knox’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for the photo, then stopped himself. Evidence. We couldn’t disturb evidence.

My hand moved to my throat, the healing marks there throbbed with resurfacing memories. I pushed myself past the horror of the surveillance photos to focus on other evidence. I couldn’t afford a mental breakdown or a full-blown panic attack right now, and that’s exactly what I’d get if I lingered on the photos too long.

Knox cursed. He pulled out his phone, snapping photos of everything inside the small building. Documentation before the sheriff’s team arrived.

Footsteps on the wooden porch froze us all.

Knox moved instantly, positioning himself between me and the door, one hand pushing me toward the back corner. Colton did the same with Maggie, the two men forming an impenetrable barrier.

A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against midday light. Young, maybe early twenties, thin and nervous-looking. Definitely not the man who’d attacked me.

“Oh, shit,” the kid said, hands raised, voice shaking. “I’m just staying here for the weekend. I’m not part of whatever that is.” His gaze moved over the photos and maps, and his face went white. “I swear it.”

“Who are you?” Knox’s voice was calm, authoritative. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Sam. I move around. I sleep here when I’m on the island.” The kid lowered his hands slowly, but kept them visible. “This place was always abandoned. Then he showed up.”

“Who showed up?” Colton asked.

“I don’t know his name. A guy. Tall, heavy build. Drives that blue-and-white van.” Sam’s hands trembled.

“How often does he come here?” Knox asked.

“Couple times a week, maybe? Sometimes more. He brings supplies, stays for a few hours, then leaves. I’ve been hiding when he’s around. Something about him just feels... wrong.”

“What else?” Knox demanded.

The kid’s gaze darted nervously around. “Uhm, I don’t know. He comes and goes. Sometimes he’s here for days, sometimes he’s gone for weeks. He takes his stuff when he goes for more than the day. He says this place is his. I’ve been hiding in the woods when he’s around, trying to stay out of his way.”

“Why didn’t you report this?” I asked, stepping out from behind Knox despite his warning hand. “Why didn’t you call the police when you saw these photos?” I gestured toward the back room.

“Oh, man.” Sam’s skin paled impossibly further. “That’s you in the pictures.”

Knox went very still. “What else do you know?”

“I don’t know anything.” Sam’s palms flipped up again. He took a backward step, and the men before me advanced.

“Stop.” Knox’s voice was deadly calm, his posture and expression, lethal.

Beside him, Colton radioed Nash. “Sheriff? We’ve got confirmation. The ranger station is our suspect’s base of operations.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Who are you guys?”