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I don't like it. I especially don't like that whoever left it had a clear line of sight to the cabin's front windows.

By the time I make it down to Yvonne's porch, she's already got coffee going and a look on her face that tells me she's been waiting for me.

"Her name's Zoey Milano," Yvonne says, before I can ask. "Not Carter. I looked her up last night after she went to bed."

"The singer."

"You know who that is?"

"I know what a phone is, Yvonne. I don't live in a cave." I take the mug she offers. "What's she running from?"

Yvonne's mouth goes thin, the way it does when she's deciding how much to tell me. "There was an attack. Some man got backstage at one of her shows a few months back. Nearly killed her before security got him off her." She glances toward the cabin, still quiet, curtains drawn. "She's not here for a vacation, Kellan. She's here because she doesn't feel safe anywhere else."

"I found tracks up past the ridge," I say. "And a scent that doesn't belong to anyone I know."

Yvonne's hand tightens around her own mug. "How close?"

"Close enough to see her windows."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks toward the cabin with an expression I don't see on her often. Worry, real and unguarded. "I need you to watch her closer than usual. Not just the standard sweep. I want eyes on that cabin more nights than not, at least until we know what we're dealing with."

"I already planned to."

"I know you did." She pats my arm, brief and firm. "That's why I called you first."

I spend most of the morning working the property line under the excuse of clearing deadfall, which gives me a reason to be visible without looking like I'm watching anyone in particular. Around midmorning, Zoey comes out onto the porch with a mug of coffee and a blanket around her shoulders, and I get my first real look at her in daylight.

She's smaller than she looked from the treeline last night, though smaller isn't really the right word. Contained, maybe. Like someone who's learned to take up less space than she actually could. She sits on the top step, coffee cupped in both hands, and every few seconds her eyes cut toward the tree line, the driveway, the empty road beyond it. Never settling. Never actually resting.

I don't mean to be seen. I'm forty yards off, working a fallen branch with the kind of quiet I've had thirty years to perfect, but she straightens suddenly, coffee halfway to her mouth, eyes locking on exactly where I'm standing.

There's no point pretending I'm not there. I set the branch down and walk toward the porch instead, slow, hands visible, the way I'd approach anything half-wild and fully spooked.

"Morning," I say, stopping a comfortable distance from the steps. "Didn't mean to startle you."

She doesn't answer right away. Just studies me the way she studied the tree line last night, cataloging, assessing, deciding how much of a threat I am. "You're not exactly subtle for someone sneaking around the property," she says finally.

"Wasn't sneaking. Yvonne asked me to clear some deadfall before the next storm rolls through."

"And who are you, exactly?"

"Kellan Ward. I do maintenance work around here. Keep an eye on the place when Yvonne needs an extra set of hands."

It's not a lie, not really. It's just not the whole truth, and I'm good enough at leaving things out that she doesn't catch the gap.

She relaxes, marginally, shoulders dropping half an inch. "Zoey," she says, then catches herself. "Ms. Carter, actually. Sorry. Still getting used to that."

I don't call her on it. Whatever name she wants to use is her business, not mine. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Carter."

"You can just call me Zoey. The Carter thing is starting to feel ridiculous already, and I've been here less than a day."

"Zoey, then."

We stand there a moment, the kind of quiet that should be awkward and somehow isn't. She's still watching me carefully, but there's less fear in it now, more curiosity, like she's trying to work out what kind of animal I am.

"You always this quiet?" she asks.

"Most people say too quiet."