Chapter 5: The Watcher in the shadows

POV: Jane

The truck engine cuts out, and the woods swallow the sound whole. Dan kills the headlights, plunging us into moonlight so thick it feels like a curtain.

"Welcome home," he says, his voice a low rumble in the dark.

"It isn't my home," I reply, and my voice trembles despite everything I do to steady it.

"It is tonight."

I stare at the structure through the windshield. It looks like something off a rustic postcard; charming, in harmless, inviting. But my eyes have spent six years in forensic accounting learning to spot the one anomaly in a sea of data, and now they catch the details that don't belong. The reinforced sheen on the windows. Motion sensors tucked beneath the eaves like sleeping bats. A door that looks wooden but sits in its frame with the weight of something else entirely.

"This isn't a cabin," I murmur. "It's a bunker wearing a costume."

Dan's grin catches the silver light, sharp and sudden. "Smart girl. Told the guys you had a brain under all that terror. Come on."

He pushes the heavy door open, and warmth hits me first; cedar and woodsmoke, so thick I can almost taste it. My knees, which have been locked in pure white-knuckled adrenaline since the bar, suddenly forget their purpose. I stumble forward.

Dan's hand shoots out, catching my waist. His grip is solid, scorching hot even through my thin jacket.

"Whoa. Easy, Janey," he murmurs.

"I'm fine," I gasp, trying to pull back. But I'm not. My teeth chatter in a rhythm I can't control, a staccato I hate.

"Sure you are." He doesn't let go immediately. His thumb brushes the dip of my waist, and the shiver that races down my spine is traitorous, unwelcome, real. "You're shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Let's get you secured."

He guides me toward the entryway. "C'mere. Lemme show you how the locks work before you try to Fort Knox yourself in without knowing the tricks."

I hesitate. Every survival instinct I have is screaming at me not to let him touch me. Closeness is how they find you. Closeness is how they hurt you. But my legs are jelly, and some starved, pathetic part of me just wants someone else to carry the weight for five seconds.

I step closer.

Dan moves right behind me. Not grabbing. Not shoving. Just there. The furnace heat of his chest radiates against my back, and I can smell leather, engine grease, and something clean underneath that doesn't fit the rest of him at all.

"Deadbolt's reinforced steel," he murmurs. His large hand closes over mine on the lock, guiding my fingers. "Frame's the same. Ain't nobody kicking this in. Not without a tank."

Click.

"Second one reinforces the steel plate."

Click.

His breath skates across my ear. "And the third. Nobody gets through that without making a whole lot of noise."

"That's... good to know," I manage, my voice embarrassingly thin.

"Good to know," he repeats, low, like he's tasting the words. His hand turns the final bolt. The heavy clack echoes like a gavel. "You're safe here, Jane. I mean that. Whatever's chasing you goes through me first. And I don't go down easy."

I turn my head. Bad idea. He's right there. The manic chaos in his eyes is gone, replaced by a quiet, terrifying sincerity.

"Why do you care?" I whisper. "You don't even know me."

Something flickers across his face; there and gone before I can name it. "Get some sleep," he says instead, stepping back so fast the cold air rushes in to fill his space. "I'll be on the porch."

"You're staying outside? All night?"

"Somebody's gotta keep watch." He winks, the mask sliding back into place. "Holler if you need anything. I mean it."

The door eases shut behind him. I throw the bolt myself. Slide the chain. Press my forehead to the cool wood and just breathe.

Safe. Almost.

I push off the door and force myself to move. The cabin is ridiculously nice. Granite counters, a chef's knife set, a leather couch that looks like it cost more than my first car. I need to do something with my hands before they start shaking again.

Old habits kick in. The consistency of hunting for the thing that doesn't belong in a column of numbers. I start sweeping the room.

Kitchen: spotless.

Living room: bookshelves lined with spy thrillers.

I move to the bedroom. Heavy oak dresser. Hospital corners on the bed.

I'm so distracted by the sheer perfection of the room that I almost miss it.

Almost.

But my body knows danger before my brain catches up. A prickle at the back of my neck. A whisper of wrongness.

I scan the room. Slower this time.

Bed. Dresser. Nightstand. Window. Ceiling beam.

My blood turns to ice water.

High up in the corner, where the thick wooden beam meets the plaster, a shadow doesn't sit quite right. It's too round. Too deliberate.

I don't breathe. My eyes adjust to the dim light.

A camera.

Small. Black. Professional grade. Tucked into the joint, painted to match the wood grain. And right in the center of the lens, a red light pulses.

Blink.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Blink.

I've seen cameras like this before. Hidden in the base of a lamp my ex bought me. It was a leash. And now I'm wearing another one.

The cabin isn't a safehouse. It's a cage. A very pretty, very comfortable cage with a deadbolt I locked myself inside, and a guard outlaw smoking on the porch who promised to keep me safe.

Didn't say anything about letting me leave, though, a dark voice whispers in my head.

I force my face into a blank mask. If there's one camera, there are more.

I turn slowly, letting my eyes sweep the rest of the room.

There. A tiny glint in the bathroom doorway.

There. Barely visible in the seam of the dresser mirror.

Three cameras. Minimum.

My stomach turns. Bile burns my throat. I walk back into the living room, my legs feeling like they belong to someone else.

There. Above the kitchen cabinets.

There. Pointed directly at the leather couch where I almost collapsed in relief ten minutes ago.

The front door is five steps away. I take one.

Then I stop.

Dan is still on the porch. I can hear his boots pacing. If I unlock the door, he'll hear it. If I run, he'll catch me. And even if I got past him... where would I go? My ex is still looking for me. I have nowhere to run. No one to call.

I sink onto the edge of the leather couch. My hands are shaking again. I press them flat against my thighs, staring at the camera in the bookshelf.

I see you, the steady red pulse seems to say.

I don't blink back. I don't cry. I don't break.

But I don't unlock the door, either. Because somewhere in the cold, terrified hollow of my chest, a darker thought is forming.

At least someone's watching. At least I'm not alone.

I close my eyes, waiting for morning, the red lights burning against my eyelids like tiny, patient stars.