Chapter One
Rylee My eyes snapped open in the darkness, jolted awake by a vivid dream. The serene image of the lake, illuminated by the moonlight, and the sensation of swimming at night quickly dissolved into something more sinister. Unseen hands pulling me under, water filling my lungs. It was a recurring nightmare that plagued my sleep. In the past, I had been a heavy sleeper, but in the year since Trey's death, restful nights had become a rarity. Now, I found myself waking up in the dead of night, with only the shadows on my walls for company. I shifted in bed, adjusting the pillow beneath my head, desperately seeking a comfortable position. Sometimes, I could manage to fall back asleep. Other times, I would lie awake until the first light of dawn peeked through my windows. The weight of the dream clung to me, the dark water in moonlight haunting my thoughts. I couldn't decide whether I should close my eyes again and hope for a dreamless sleep, or give up and read until morning. Sleep. That's what I needed. A full night of uninterrupted sleep, free from the clutches of this recurring nightmare. I held onto that hope as my eyelids began to droop. But then, I heard it. A muffled thump. The sound of something being dragged, or perhaps someone walking in sock-covered feet. I sat up abruptly, throwing off the covers and planting my feet firmly on the carpet. Leaning forward, I strained my ears, desperate to catch any hint of sound. Had I truly heard something? It wouldn't be the first time a noise had roused me from my slumber. Living in an isolated house on the edge of the lake, surrounded by woods, I was no stranger to the sounds of wildlife and the rustling of the wind during the night. But this was different. Everything had changed since Trey's death. I listened intently, holding my breath, but all I could hear was the faint echo of crickets outside. I took a deep, slow breath, reminding myself that the doors were locked and the alarm was on. The house was secure. The last time I had thought I heard a noise, I had called the police, only to feel like a fool when Deputy Harris arrived. He had been fishing buddies with Trey, and while he hadn't outright accused me of making things up, I could sense his skepticism. I didn't need his sympathy or worried looks. There was nothing in the house. It was just my overactive imagination, fueled by stress and countless nights of disrupted sleep. I almost convinced myself that I had imagined it all. I turned, ready to slip back under the covers, when the sound came again. A soft, shuffling thump. Not quite the sound of footsteps, but more like something being dragged along. I couldn't ignore it any longer. I had to find out what was causing the noise. Standing up slowly, my palms clammy and my heart racing, I reached for my robe which lay discarded at the foot of the bed. I hastily tied the belt, trying to bring some semblance of order to my disheveled appearance. My hair fell into my face, obscuring my vision. I quickly gathered it into a messy knot, not caring about the crushed curls, just wanting it out of the way. The house remained eerily silent, but I knew I had heard something. I wasn't going crazy. I wasn't imagining things. There was definitely a noise coming from inside the house. I picked up my phone, staring at the screen, contemplating whether to call Deputy Harris. But the memory of his condescending expression the last time I had disturbed him in the middle of the night held me back. He had suggested that the stress of being alone and the weight of grief could play tricks on my mind. The gentle touch of his hand on my shoulder, meant to offer comfort, only made me feel more isolated. Did he think I was that pitiful? That desperate for company? I wasn't pathetic. I was scared. With my phone in hand, I turned on the bedroom light. I needed the reassurance of familiar surroundings. The white walls, my messy bed. It provided some sense of safety. As I made my way down the hall, I switched on the lights, illuminating my path towards Carl's room. Trey had insisted that our son sleep as far away from us as possible. Back then, I hadn't minded. Carl was a handful to put to sleep, but once he was out, he slept like a log. Trey used to joke that Carl slept just like me, before everything changed. Now, I hated the distance between our rooms, but Carl refused to move. Leaving Carl's room in darkness, I tiptoed to his bedside. He lay face down on the mattress, the quilt kicked off to his feet, his cartoon pajamas twisted around his small frame. He slept soundly, oblivious to the world. But he was a restless sleeper, always shifting and moving. Sometimes, I would let him fall asleep in my bed, only to relocate him to his own later. Too many nights had been interrupted by kicks to my kidneys or a tiny toe in my ear.His slumber was deep, yet his body remained in constant motion. The tousled strands of his blonde hair, kissed by the summer sun, cascaded across his navy pillowcase. I gently ran my fingers through his silky locks, so similar to Trey's, but contrasting starkly with my own dark curls. It was about time he got a haircut. I straightened myself up and made my way towards the door, shutting it carefully behind me. If I were alone, I might have ignored the sound, convincing myself that it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. But I had Carl with me, and his safety took precedence over everything else. As I reached the top of the staircase, I paused. The darkness below seemed like a vast abyss, concealing whatever had caused that sly, shuffling noise. I strained my ears, desperately trying to detect any signs of movement in the shadows. But there was nothing visible. With a decisive flick of my hand, I switched on the light at the top of the stairs, illuminating the empty hallway beneath. The hallway, and the alarm panel mounted on the wall near the base of the staircase. The alarm panel with its blinking green lights. Green, not red. My heart pounded fiercely in my chest, and my breath caught in my throat. I had set the alarm, there was no doubt about it. I never forgot. I didn't grow up in the countryside; I was accustomed to living in the suburbs. I had always despised the seclusion of the house Trey had built for us. Even when he was alive, I diligently set the alarm every night. I never forgot. Yet those green lights glowed up at me, casting doubt and uncertainty. Had I forgotten? Could I have? Slowly, I descended the stairs, my mind working overtime to recollect the events leading up to this moment. We had an early dinner. Carl devoured his chicken fingers dipped in honey mustard, reluctantly nibbling on two carrot sticks. I had leftover lasagna. After dinner, Carl took a bath and changed into his pajamas. We snuggled up on the couch, with his favorite stuffed monkey nestled between us, and watched half of a movie. Curious George, again. Carl was obsessed with Curious George, and for the past two weeks, we had watched that movie every single night. Then it was time for Carl to go to bed. I read him a story and gave him a back rub until he drifted off to sleep. Afterwards, I went downstairs, armed the alarm, and brewed myself a cup of tea before taking a book and my tea upstairs to bed. I distinctly remember setting the alarm while waiting for the water to boil. I then proceeded to walk through the entire first floor, switching off the lights one by one, with the alarm panel glowing red. Armed. So how was it now green? The mere thought sent my mind spiraling into chaos. Only Trey and I knew the code, and Trey was no longer with us. The alarm had never malfunctioned before. If it had, the police would have been alerted. Someone must have disarmed it. But who? And how? Even if someone had the code, the siren should have blared when the door was opened. The only way to disarm the panel silently was from inside the house. The icy grip of fear tightened around my heart. No. I had thoroughly checked the house. No one had entered. No one. It was impossible. Or was it? It's a large house. So many hiding places. I pushed that thought away forcefully. I refused to succumb to hysteria. There had to be a simple explanation. Perhaps the power had gone out while I was sleeping. But what about the backup battery? Could I have sleepwalked to the panel and turned it off myself? As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I averted my gaze from the green glow of the alarm panel. The front door was securely closed and locked, with the windows on either side engulfed in darkness. Summoning all my courage, I took a step forward and flipped every switch on the panel by the door. A bright light flooded the steps outside, casting its glow on the driveway. Beyond the driveway, the lake shimmered black under the moonlight, mirroring the scene from my dream. The lights from the dock emitted a warm and inviting glow. No one was there. No one on the lake. No one on the dock. No one on the path. I peered into the darkness, surveying the vast open space that constituted most of the first floor. Trey had designed the house with the assistance of a renowned modernist architect. From the moment I set foot in it, I despised it. This part of Maine was brimming with classic New England architecture. Colonials. Saltboxes. Cape Cods. Georgians. Federals. Even a few Victorians. Painted siding. Brick. Shutters and front porches. But this house, with its flat windows and sharp angles, its metal and concrete, seemed like an alien structure dropped into this world. Or perhaps California. In Maine, they were practically the same thing. Modern and audacious, it protruded from the peninsula, encroaching upon the lake and disrupting the natural harmony of the shoreline. The house Trey had built demanded attention, asserting itself when it should have blended seamlessly with the trees and the water. I loathed having to disclose my address to anyone who wasn't already aware of it. "Oh, that house," they would say. "Why did you go and build something like that?" If I had a dollar for every time I had heard that, I could afford to burn the place down and escape. Not that money would make a difference. It wasn't a lack of money that kept me here. For the first time, I found solace in the open design of the house. With a simple flick of a switch, I could see everything. Almost everything. The kitchen, empty. The dining area, the sitting area, empty.The doors to the decks, all closed and locked. I crossed the empty room and flipped more switches. The deck lights flashed on. Empty. There was no one here. I was imagining things. My nerves were shot, like Calvin said. I turned on the balls of my feet, phone still clutched in my hand, ready to write the whole thing off as a delusion. An overreaction. Just two more rooms to check, and I could assure myself that I might be crazy, but at least Carl and I were alone. I'd barely turned when a sharp crack filled the hall. Something metal clattered. Rolled. The mudroom. It had to be. The only things down that hall were the family room, the mudroom, and beyond that, the garage. And the back door. When Trey died, I'd sold his guns. I didn't like them in the house with a little boy. Carl was already climbing like the monkey he loved so much, and there was nowhere I could hide the guns that he wouldn't find. Trey had never wanted a gun safe, saying what was the point of having weapons if you have to work that hard to get to them? I wasn't a great shot. I hadn't enjoyed target practice like he did, but in that moment, I would have given anything for the weight of his Glock 9mm in my hand. For anything other than my phone. I looked over my shoulder at the kitchen. I didn't have a gun, but I had an exceptional collection of knives. I love to cook, and my knives are my indulgence. Japanese, handmade of layered steel, they were as much works of art as tools. And each one was wickedly sharp. Moving on the balls of my feet, I ran to the kitchen and slid open the knife drawer, pulling free my longest, sharpest blade. The handle fit my palm as if it had been made for me. I could debone a chicken like nobody's business, but I'd never thought about using the knife on a person. I didn't know if I could. Carl slept upstairs. If Carl was at stake, I could do anything. I would do anything. But I didn't want to. I'd raced to the kitchen. My progress toward the mudroom was a lot slower. I clutched my phone in my hand, thinking it might be worth Calvin's patronizing reassurance to avoid facing whatever made that noise in the mudroom. Except… Except the last time I'd called he’d put his hand on my shoulder, his eyes gentle and worried, and said that maybe the strain of taking care of Carl by myself was too much. Maybe I needed a break. He hadn't said he was going to call social services. He hadn't said he planned to tell them Carl's mother was crazy and delusional. He hadn't had to. I wasn't calling Calvin unless I was sure I had no other choice. The light in the hall should have been reassuring. It wasn't. The family room was empty. Warm, heavy air wafted down the hall, out of place in the sterile, air-conditioned house. My fingers tightened on the handle of the knife as I reached through the door of the mudroom and pushed up the light switch with the side of my wrist. The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling seared my eyeballs. I blinked hard, the scene in front of me slowly coming into focus. The back door gaped open, the woods beyond the house black. Impenetrable. I couldn't see anything moving, but it was so dark beneath the trees someone could be lurking right outside the door, and I wouldn’t know until he was on top of me. The tall, metal umbrella stand by the back door was on its side, umbrellas spilling out across the tile. The crash I heard. Someone leaving? I wanted to believe it was someone leaving. The alternative, that someone was inside the house, was too frightening to contemplate. My brain was stuck in a loop. Pick up the umbrella stand. Close the door. Pick up the umbrella stand. Close the door. I did. The flick of the lock, the bolt sliding into place, should have made me feel safe. It didn't. The alarm was off. The door was open. Someone had been in my house. I could have imagined the sound, the shuffle, and the thump, but I did not imagine the alarm being off. I did not imagine the door hanging open and the umbrella stand knocked over. I stood there, staring at the locked door, trying to think. I should have taken a picture. I should have called Calvin while the umbrella stand was still knocked over and the door was still open. If I called him now, with no proof, he wouldn't believe me. But if someone had been here, I didn't want to leave the door open. I wanted it locked. I didn't know what to do. I gripped the knife and shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trapped by indecision. Why would someone break into my house? A thief could have made off with a fortune in artwork from the first floor alone. I hadn't noticed anything missing as I passed through the house. At a loss for what else to do, I left the mudroom and went back through the first floor. Nothing was missing. Nothing I could see."Why would someone break in if not to steal?" The question echoed through my mind, haunting me as I stood in the middle of the brightly-lit kitchen. Carl, my young son, lay asleep in his bed, innocent and vulnerable. I had done everything I could to protect him - alarms, top-of-the-line locks - and yet, we still weren't safe. We should have been safe. My thoughts raced, grappling with the fear and uncertainty that gripped me. Had I locked someone out? Or had I inadvertently locked them in? Panic surged through me, threatening to overwhelm my senses. Then, a memory flickered in my mind. Trey, my late husband, had mentioned a new security system before his untimely death. At the time, I brushed him off, not fully grasping the urgency behind his words. Our existing system was already excessive for our quiet town in Maine, despite Trey's art collection. In his final months, Trey had become restless and anxious, his temper short and easily provoked. He talked about buying more guns, upgrading the alarm. I stopped asking questions, annoyed by his paranoia. It was always about him, never about us. But he had left me a card, urging me to call someone if I ever needed help and he wasn't there. A lion's head and a circle, black on white. I clutched the knife tightly in one hand, my phone in the other, as I made my way to Trey's office. His desk was pristine, untouched since his passing. Neatly arranged pens, organized paperclips, and a stack of business cards caught my eye. With trepidation, I opened the top drawer and found what I was searching for. Amongst the stockbroker and maid service cards was one for Thompson Security. Maxwell Thompson, the name read. Atlanta, Georgia. Why would Trey have worked with a company so far away? It was the dead of night, but I dialled the toll-free number without hesitation. The phone rang, transferring the call to Thompson Security's after-hours line. A woman's voice greeted me, prompting me to leave a message. Nervously, I stumbled through an explanation of our break-ins and my husband's instruction to call in times of trouble. I hung up, my face flushed with embarrassment. I should have been more composed, more prepared. But fear had taken hold, leaving me rattled and scared. Leaving the card on the desk, I picked up the knife, contemplating distractions like a cup of tea or the comforting noise of the television. But I couldn't bring myself to do any of it. Instead, I climbed the stairs, checking every room for signs of intrusion. When I reached Carl's door, I turned the knob, praying silently that he remained undisturbed. Relief washed over me as I found Carl sleeping peacefully, his rosy cheeks and rhythmic breaths reassuring me of his safety. I closed the door, locking it as best I could, and settled onto the carpet, back against the bed frame. The only sound in the room was the gentle rise and fall of Carl's breathing. Curled up tightly, I listened intently for any disturbance, my grip tightening on the knife and phone. I waited, eyes fixed on the door, yearning for the arrival of daylight and the false promise of safety.
Chapter Two
Rylee "I'm not in the mood for grilled cheese again." "That's interesting. When I asked you half an hour ago, you insisted on having grilled cheese for lunch. Not peanut butter and jelly, not chicken noodle soup. Just grilled cheese." Carl scowled down at the perfectly-toasted grilled cheese sandwich, his lower lip pooching out. "That was before I knew you were going to use the yellow cheese." I suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Breathe, I reminded myself. He's only five. He's not intentionally being difficult. Well, maybe he was. A five-year-old has three main responsibilities: explore the world, give great snuggles, and drive their parents insane. Carl was excelling in all three. "Carl, I already told you, the grocery store ran out of white cheese. It's either yellow cheese or no cheese at all." The scent of melting cheese and toasted bread wafted across the table, making my stomach growl. I had made lunch for Carl, but I hadn't gotten around to making mine. Slowly, I reached across the table and said casually, "Well, if you don't want it, I might as well eat it for you. I haven't had lunch either and—" "No!" Carl snatched up a triangle of sandwich and shoved half of it into his mouth, chewing furiously as he glared at me. Bingo. The distraction tactic didn't always work. Sometimes, he would cross his arms and refuse to eat until I met his demands. Internally, I sighed as I watched him devour the sandwich. White bread and cheese toasted in butter would not do any favors for my figure, but the smell was irresistible. I hadn't realized how much I wanted one until I reached across the table and my mouth began to water. Pushing my chair back, I began making my own sandwich. I would worry about the size of my rear end later. I was spreading butter on a thick slice of bread when three heavy knocks reverberated through the door. Thump, thump, thump. I jumped, my muscles tightening, and the knife slipped from my hand, clattering onto the counter. Carl's eyes shot up from his sandwich, worry etched on his face. "Mom?" "Oops," I said, picking up the knife, stalling for time as my mind raced. It's just someone at the door. It's nothing to be concerned about. People knock on doors all the time. It doesn't mean anything. I tried to push the events of the previous night out of my mind. I tried to forget about the open door, the darkness of the woods beyond. The dragging sound and my frantic phone call. In the light of day, it all seemed exaggerated and melodramatic. Maybe I hadn't closed the door properly. Maybe I had forgotten to set the alarm. Maybe I was overreacting. The logical part of me objected to this train of thought. I knew what I saw, and I knew I hadn't forgotten to set the alarm. Thump. Thump. Thump. Three more heavy knocks echoed through the house. I tried not to imagine the size of the fist that made those deep, resonating sounds. "Aren't you going to answer it?" Carl asked with a mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich. Straightening up, I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and turned to smile at Carl. "Of course. The knock just startled me because it was so quiet. Finish your lunch, and if you eat it all, you can have an apple." "I'd rather have a cookie," Carl grumbled under his breath. What kid didn't like cookies? My kid, apparently. It was the cookies, not the kid. My baking skills were hit or miss. My grilled cheese sandwiches? Divine. My cookies? Not so much. Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, I walked down the hall, stopping at the security panel to turn on the screen. The camera clicked on, revealing a man standing at the door. He was tall, his short-cropped dark hair barely visible on the top of the screen. Only one broad shoulder was in view, and his arms looked muscular. A black shirt with a familiar lion's head logo stretched across his chest. It couldn't be. I had only called the night before. Unlocking the door, I swung it open and looked up. And up. I was on the shorter side, petite except for my hips and butt. My visitor towered over me, his face unreadable, his eyes flat. My voice wavered as I spoke, "Can I help you?" "Preston Thompson. Thompson Security. You called, said you needed help." I cleared my throat. "That was quick. I only called a few hours ago." "Good timing. My schedule was open. So was the plane." "I thought you would call first. I—" I had made the phone call, but I hadn't expected someone to show up so soon. Wasn't that strange? Who flies most of the way up the east coast without calling ahead? Trey had left me Thompson Security's card. What if they were involved in whatever Trey had gotten himself into? What if Preston Thompson was at my door only hours after I had called because he was already in Maine? Because he had been at my open door last night? Preston's dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't decipher his expression. I needed help. I needed someone I could trust. That didn't mean Preston was the answer."Will you grant me entry?" he inquired with a deep timbre. I stepped aside, gesturing for him to come into the house. Preston paced past me, his eyes scouring the entry hall and the visible portions of the living room. His expression remained inscrutable, despite any annoyance he may have harbored for the interrupted day that led him to Maine. "Would you like some coffee? Or perhaps lunch? I'm not quite sure how we go about this," I confessed, raising my hands in a helpless manner. "Coffee will suffice, no need for lunch. I ate during the flight. Is there a place where we can sit down? I must understand the situation before I can offer any assistance," he responded. "Oh, certainly. Yes. I'll prepare some coffee for you, and then we can sit in the living room. Just let me settle my son first. I wouldn't want him to—" I motioned towards the kitchen. Preston seemed to comprehend my unspoken concern. He nodded, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head inquisitively. I found myself staring at him, taking in the thickness of his dark hair, the depth of his brown eyes bordering on black, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the straightness of his nose, and the fullness of his lower lip—such a lush contrast against his strong countenance. His voice rumbled, "The living room?" I averted my gaze, feeling a flush creep up my cheeks. One moment I hesitated to trust the man, and the next I was captivated by his lips. I needed to regain my composure. "Yes, my apologies. Allow me to show you." Preston followed as I led him further into the house, taking care to lock the door behind us. The living room stretched out before us, and I gestured vaguely. "Feel free to sit anywhere you like. I'll be right back." Leaving Preston Thompson to settle himself, I discovered Carl finishing the last remnants of his sandwich. He opened his mouth to speak, but I halted him with a raised palm. "Not while you're chewing." For a moment, I feared he would choke as he swallowed the massive bite, washing it down with a generous gulp of lemonade. "Who was it?" he inquired. I busied myself with brewing a fresh pot of coffee, contemplating how to respond. I endeavored not to lie to Carl. Despite being only five years old, he possessed an uncanny ability to detect falsehoods. I wasn't about to confess that I feared someone had attempted to break into our home. No, that was out of the question. Instead, I opted for a partial truth. "Now that it's just the two of us, I believe it's time to upgrade our alarm system. I contacted the company that installed it, and they sent someone over. I need to have a discussion with him so we can determine the appropriate course of action," I explained. "Upgrade the alarm? Like with laser beams so no one can step on the floor?" Carl's eyes sparkled with delight. My child was watching far too many cartoons. I shook my head. "I'm fairly certain there won't be any laser beams. This isn't a museum, sweetheart—it's just a house. Even if it does contain the most precious thing in the world." He flashed me his pure, childlike grin, causing my heart to squeeze. He was the most precious thing in this house, in the entire world. I would do anything to keep him safe. "I have a feeling this is going to be a rather boring meeting for adults. How about you go to the family room and watch some cartoons?" I suggested. "TV during the day?" Carl questioned. Without waiting for my confirmation, he pushed his chair back and darted down the hallway, not sparing a glance for Preston Thompson as he flew past the living room. Unless Preston Thompson had arrived with a lightsaber or a team of ninjas to defend the house, there was no chance Carl would tear himself away from the television to investigate our adult meeting. I arranged freshly baked coffee cake on a plate, carrying it on a tray along with two cups of coffee, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar. Preston sat beside the coffee table, several file folders spread out before him. He had shifted his chair to have a clear view of the front door, the hallway, and the tall windows overlooking the lake. I wasn't the only one who felt paranoid. His dark eyes lifted from the papers in his hand. "These windows are a security nightmare." I set the tray down on the coffee table and settled onto the couch next to Preston's armchair. "Are they? I wasn't aware. I don't possess much knowledge about security. Trey, my late husband, installed the system when we built the house, but—" "Trey was your husband?" Preston interrupted. I took a sip of coffee, feeling uneasy. Unease always accompanied any mention of Trey's name these days. I shouldn't feel uneasy. I should be consumed by grief. I should be mourning. But I wasn't. I was uneasy, and I was afraid. I wouldn't divulge any of that to Preston Thompson. Instead, I simply nodded. "Yes, Trey was my husband. He designed the house and took care of the alarm system. I know how to use it, for the most part, but I don't know all the specifics." "I have them right here," Preston said, gesturing towards a manila folder resting on the coffee table. "It seems my father supervised the installation personally. Expanding it shouldn't be too difficult if that's what we need." Preston helped himself to a cup of coffee, disregarding the cream and sugar. He took a sip before fixing his intense gaze on me. "You called in a panic last night.""Did someone break in last night?" I blurted out, unable to contain the question any longer. Preston scribbled a note on the paper in his hand, his gaze fixed on it. "What did the police say?" he inquired, not bothering to look up. "I... I didn't call them," I stammered. His eyes bore into me, sharp and piercing. "Why did you call us instead of the police when there was an intruder in your house?" His voice held a hint of reproach. "I... I..." I stumbled over my words, at a loss for an explanation. Leaning forward, Preston's voice softened. "What are you afraid of, Rylee? I can't help you if you won't talk to me." The truth spilled out of me. "I don't know where to start," I confessed, the words revealing so much and yet so little. I didn't know where to begin with anything. The break-ins, my life as a widow, Preston Thompson and his offer of help. "Start at the beginning," Preston urged simply. But the beginning was far from simple. It was college, Trey, and that first rush of foolish love. That was the true beginning. But that wasn't what Preston wanted to hear. "About a month after Trey died," I began, "I thought someone tried to break into the house. The alarm went off and the police came. They found nothing, but I heard something outside." "It happened again?" Preston's eyebrow raised in surprise. "Every week or two." "That often?" he questioned, his curiosity piqued. "It's not always a break-in. Sometimes things outside are moved. I even found marks on a window like someone tried to force it open." "Did you show the marks to the police? What did they say?" I shook my head. "Trey's best friend Calvin, he's a deputy with the town Police Department. He's been watching out for us since Trey died. He thinks it's nothing, just teenagers messing around. He said the marks on the garage door were probably caused by an animal trying to get at the garbage, but..." Preston's eyes flashed with interest. "Do you have problems with animals here? Have they tried to get into the garage before?" "No. If I leave the trash cans out, maybe. We're surrounded by woods here, so there are animals like raccoons, foxes, and sometimes coyotes. In the summer, there are tons of deer. But trying to break into the garage or damage the house? Never. So if it's animals, why now?" "A good question," Preston murmured, his voice low. "Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around?" "No. Sometimes I thought I heard something, but..." "What happened last night?" Preston pressed. I recounted the events of the previous night, struggling to keep my voice steady. When I finished, Preston placed his notepad and pen on the coffee table, leaning back in his chair. He propped his ankle on his knee, arms folded across his chest. "Are you sure you set the alarm? Sure you closed and locked the door?" he asked, his tone searching. "I'm sure," I affirmed. "I never forget to lock up. I check the doors every night after Carl goes to sleep, and I never forget the alarm. Ever." Under Preston's unwavering gaze, I found myself pacing in front of my chair. "I know what I saw. I know what I heard. Carl was in bed. I should have been the only one in the house. I'm not making this up." "Sit down, Rylee," Preston commanded. Without thinking, I plopped back into my chair, realizing too late that he had spoken to me in the same tone I used with Carl. I stayed put, not wanting to anger him. Preston wasn't exactly friendly. He was a little intimidating. But he was here to help me. I couldn't afford to upset him. He studied me intently, dissecting me with his gaze. I fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. Finally, he asked, "Has anyone suggested that you might be making this up?" "Calvin. Trey's friend. The deputy. He thinks I'm exaggerating. The rest of the police agree." "That's why you called us instead of the police last night?" Preston deduced. I nodded. It was enough that Preston knew I was scared of an intruder. He didn't need to know about my other fears. That the police would think I was unstable. That they might take Carl away from me. That I wouldn't be able to stop them. Preston opened the manila folder on the coffee table. "Your alarm was deactivated last night at 3:28 AM using the main code. Was that not you?" I shook my head, biting down on my lower lip to anchor myself as panic surged through me. I wanted to stand, to pace, to run away. But I forced myself to stay seated, my teeth sunk into my lip, afraid that if I spoke, my voice would shake. I hadn't imagined it. Someone had deactivated the alarm while I slept, using my own code. Piecing together the puzzle, Preston continued, "The alarm was reactivated at 4:18 AM. Was that you?" I nodded. Preston closed the folder, lost in thought. He absentmindedly picked up the slice of coffee cake I had offered him, breaking off a corner and popping it into his mouth. As he chewed, confusion furrowed his brow. He took a swig of coffee, washing down the cake. Had I messed up the coffee cake again? How could I be so good at cooking and so terrible at baking? Weren't they the same thing? Distracted, I broke off a corner of my own coffee cake, lost in my own thoughts.The taste of the coffee cake lingered in my mouth like a regret I couldn't wash away. I took a gulp of coffee, hoping to drown out the disappointing flavors. Preston mirrored my actions, his grip on the mug betraying his distaste for the pastry as well. We sat in silence for a moment, both of us trying to erase the memory of that failed breakfast. Finally, Preston broke the silence with a question that had been weighing on his mind. "Why would someone try to break into your house?" His voice was filled with genuine curiosity and concern. Shrugging my shoulders, I replied, "I honestly don't know. I don't have anything worth stealing." Preston's eyes scanned the living room, taking in the sculptures and artwork adorning the walls. "Jewelry? Money? Valuables that are easier to move than what's here?" I shook my head. "I don't have much jewelry. Just a string of pearls my parents gave me and my wedding and engagement rings. And as for money, there's nothing substantial. Nothing worth going through all this trouble for." His next question hit me like a punch to the gut. "What did your husband do before he died?" A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard before answering. "I honestly don't know. It's a question I should have asked countless times during our marriage. But I never did. I trusted him too much." Preston's raised eyebrow urged me to continue. "We moved up here when he got a job with a company that sold spring water. He was in logistics and distribution. After about a year, he started his own company called Smith Distributors. But he never shared the names of his clients. He said it was confidential." "Did he have an office? Coworkers? Employees?" Preston's questions came rapid-fire. "He mostly worked from home, in his office. He had a lot of meetings with clients, always going to them. He traveled a lot. And no, he didn't have any employees. He liked running the whole operation himself." "And when he passed away, did you inherit the company?" I hesitated before answering. "Technically, it's mine. But the attorney didn't have any information beyond the LLC filing. No bank accounts, no client lists. If anyone is looking for Trey, they haven't come here." Preston leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. "Bank accounts? His laptop?" "I haven't found any banking information. It's all a mystery to me." "Do you think it's possible that someone involved in your husband's business is trying to break into the house?" The weight of his question pressed down on me, and I let out a sigh. "It's the only explanation that makes sense. But I have no idea where to even start figuring out who it could be or how to make them stop." Preston's gaze remained steady as he reassured me, "That's my job. What about your personal finances? Any issues there?" I debated how much to disclose to him. But in the end, I decided to take the chance, to trust him at least a little. "Our personal finances seem fine. We didn't encounter any problems with his life insurance, and there's been no suspicious activity in our bank accounts. Everything seems normal with the bills." "Did he leave you comfortable?" Preston's question hung in the air. "Comfortable enough," I replied cautiously, not wanting to reveal just how comfortable Trey had left us. The memory of the documents from the lawyer flashed in my mind, a testament to Trey's hidden wealth. How had he acquired such a fortune without my knowledge? It was a question that haunted me. Preston straightened his posture, his gaze intense. "This is the part that might be uncomfortable. What budget are you working with?" I hesitated for a moment before responding, "Why don't you propose a plan, and I'll let you know if I can afford it." A ghost of a smile appeared on Preston's lips. "Fair enough. I think you need someone on-site twenty-four/seven until we figure out what's going on. And I believe leaving the system as it is might help catch whoever is trying to break in." "So, set up a trap?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. "Something like that," he confirmed. "As for the details, someone is already here." My nerves ignited at his words. Could I handle having Preston Thompson around all the time? He seemed capable of scaring away any threat. But there was a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. What if he wasn't here to protect me? What if his intentions were far from noble? If that were the case, I was in a lot more trouble than I could have ever imagined.
Chapter Three
Preston Rylee Smith's brown eyes were filled with shock, caught off guard by my decision to stay. Tough luck. This job was far too important to entrust to anyone else. There was something about Rylee that made me believe she was involved. It was in the way her muscles tensed, her instinct to push me away. She was involved, but how? Had she been working alongside her husband and my father? Did she have knowledge of what Tsepov and the Russian mob were after? Or was she simply a pawn in Trey Smith's game, an innocent victim used as a cover? My gut told me that Rylee Smith was innocent. Well, actually, it wasn't my gut talking. It was something much lower. Something that didn't care about her guilt or innocence. Something that only cared about her smooth, tawny skin and her cloud of soft, brown curls. But I had to push those thoughts aside. Sleeping with the client was a big no-no. And sleeping with the target? That was an even bigger mistake. So, hands off. No matter how much I desired to lose myself in her, it wasn't going to happen. Rylee was off-limits, at best. At worst? At worst, she could be a thief. She could be a killer. Even in my most suspicious moments, I had to admit that it was more likely Trey Smith had been killed by Tsepov and the mob, rather than this fragile-looking woman with frightened eyes. But likely didn't mean impossible. I had learned long ago not to underestimate women, especially the ones who seemed the most vulnerable. Suppressing the urge to comfort her and ease the fear in her eyes, I spoke up. "I'll need to stay on the property." The idea of me moving in seemed to startle Rylee. Was it because she was wary of strangers, or because she didn't want me close enough to keep an eye on her? "There's a guest house," she said in her gentle voice. "I'll show you. It's nearby, with an intercom connecting it to the main house. I'll have to check for sheets and towels—" Her voice trailed off as she got lost in her thoughts, planning for an unexpected guest. She began to rise from her seat, but then sank back down. "We didn't discuss your fee. Onsite security is expensive, I know—" "You have a son to protect," I replied calmly, noticing the flash of anger in her eyes at the suggestion that she would leave her son vulnerable to whoever was breaking in. "I'm well aware of that," she snapped. "That's why you're here. I can afford whatever you're charging, but I should know the cost, shouldn't I?" Her chin lifted defiantly, challenging me with her gaze. With a nonchalant shrug, I handed her a folder containing our contract and fee schedule. "Take a look at that while I inform the office about the situation. If there are any issues, we can work them out." I stood up and walked away, phone pressed against my ear. I didn't actually need to make a call, a text would have sufficed, but I wanted an excuse to explore the first floor before Rylee had a chance to prepare. From the corner of my eye, I observed her flipping through the contents of the folder, wincing slightly when she reached the breakdown of fees. I couldn't blame her for that. I would have winced too. She had been right. Around-the-clock protection came at a high price. Which led me to wonder—why would a widow living a quiet life in the countryside require constant security? Rylee insisted she had no idea what was happening. But after years in this profession, I knew better than to fall for the act of an innocent client. A voice spoke in my ear. "Thompson Security, how may I direct your call?" "Alice, it's Preston. Let Cooper know I'll be staying." "Understood," Alice replied. "Any update?" "Nothing yet." "But enough to warrant your presence?" "You got it," I confirmed. "Cooper will want more details, Preston. Give me something to hold him off." "There's nothing to say. Just a gut feeling telling me to dig deeper." Alice let out a sigh, well aware that pushing me further would be futile. She could handle Cooper. Anyone else and he would have growled at being kept in the dark. For Alice, he would keep his mouth shut. At least for a little while.Ending the call, I casually slid my phone into the depths of my pocket and leisurely strolled down the sleek hallway, distancing myself from the living room where Rylee Smith patiently awaited. The house exuded a modernity that was almost aggressive, entirely not my cup of tea. I preferred the warmth of wood over the coldness of metal and glass. However, I couldn't deny the breathtaking view of the lake that greeted my eyes. Trey Smith had an impeccable taste, both in his choice of home decor and in his selection of a wife. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a children's show wafted through the air. The kid had been banished to another room while the adults engaged in their business discussions. I had caught a fleeting glimpse of him as he raced past the living room, enough to notice that Rylee's child bore a striking resemblance to her late husband but held no resemblance to her at all. Curious. From the corner of my eye, I observed Rylee as she delicately extracted the contract from its folder, meticulously scanning each line while toying with the pen on the coffee table. She had sought my assistance, yet there was an unmistakable lack of trust in her eyes. Still, she hadn't shown me the door. She was engrossed in the contract, and when she finished perusing it, she would sign. I didn't need her touch on the pen to deduce that. Fear and desperation radiated from her. If she was entangled in my father's mess, I would uncover the truth. Regardless, I would ensure her safety. Taking advantage of her distraction, I leisurely ventured down the hallway to the right of the front entrance. There wasn't much to discover there – merely a powder room and a closed door at the end. The hinges moved silently as I cautiously poked my head inside. An office adorned with leather and wood greeted my eyes, complete with an oversized desk chair. This was the husband's domain. I had only known Rylee for a few minutes, but it was evident that this room held no trace of her essence. As I made my way back to the entryway, I decided to explore the kitchen. This space truly embodied Rylee. It exuded warmth and hospitality, from the vanilla-scented candle flickering on the island to the stoneware crock filled with spatulas and spoons. The country-like coziness of the kitchen sharply contrasted with the stark modernity found throughout the rest of the house. If Trey Smith had consulted Rylee on the design, he must have disregarded most of her suggestions. I passed by the living room, venturing towards the other side of the house, my curiosity still piqued. A quick glance assured me that Rylee remained engrossed in the contract, now several pages deep. Her shoulders were tense, her back rigid as she twirled the pen on the coffee table. Anxiety was etched across her features – but why? Was it a guilty conscience or simple, old-fashioned fear? According to her story, she had awoken in the dead of night to find her alarm disarmed and her back door left wide open. She believed she had heard intruders inside her home. Such an experience would terrify anyone. If her story was indeed true. Unaware of my presence, Rylee remained fixated on the contract as I stealthily passed the living room and ventured down the hallway to the left of the front entrance. Stairs leading to the second level stood on my right. I would explore up there once I had assessed the alarm system. Further ahead on the left, a family room beckoned with its massive television and black leather couches. The kid practically disappeared into the plush cushions, his attention consumed by the cartoon playing on the screen. I slipped past undetected. Beyond the family room, I discovered the laundry room, entrance to the garage, and the back door. The majority of the first floor was occupied by the expansive two-story living room where I had left Rylee. As I made my way back to her, I noticed that the contract had been unfolded to the signature page. Her elegant script spelled out her name in blue ink, with the date neatly printed beside it. A sense of satisfaction warmed my chest. I had never truly doubted that she would turn me away, but her signature on the contract eradicated any lingering apprehension. Retrieving the paperwork and pen, I signed my own name before tucking the contract securely into my briefcase. "I'll get you a copy of this later today. Shall we proceed to where I'll be staying?" I inquired. "Of course," she replied, rising from her seat and rubbing her palms against her hips. I followed her down the hallway towards the mudroom, where she halted momentarily to slip on a pair of hot pink flip-flops. "It's out here." The scent of pine mingling with the warmth of summer sunlight, the fragrance of the lake and earth, enveloped me all at once. Rylee lived in isolation up here, miles away from the small town of Black Rock. While the house may not have appealed to me, I could certainly understand the allure of the land. The sun danced upon the surface of the lake, casting dappled reflections through the dense foliage. All I needed was a hammock and a cold beer, and my contentment would be complete.With her hands buried deep in her pockets, Rylee strolled down a narrow path towards the quaint cottage that had caught my eye upon arrival. It was a stark contrast to Trey Smith's modern house, blending seamlessly with the surrounding woods and lake. The roughhewn logs and tin roof exuded a rustic charm that felt right at home in this serene setting. Curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't help but inquire about the origins of the cottage. "Did you construct this along with the main house?" I asked Rylee, my voice laced with intrigue. Rylee chuckled, her laughter light and melodious. Gracefully, she ascended the porch steps, her fingers delicately tracing the peeled logs that formed the railing. "No," she replied, her tone tinged with amusement. "Trey actually wanted to tear it down, but I insisted on keeping it. This cottage has been here since the early 1900s. It used to be part of a Boy Scout camp that once occupied this land. Although the camp is long gone, a few of the cabins still remain. It's a piece of our town's history. You can't see it from the main house, so Trey allowed me to preserve it." Unlocking the door, Rylee ushered me into the cozy space. A brick fireplace dominated the far wall, its warmth radiating throughout the room. On the opposite side, a queen-sized bed took center stage, its stripped mattress resting atop a frame crafted from more of those beautiful peeled pine logs. The wood gleamed, its lacquered finish lending it an ethereal glow. Matching the bed, the side tables, coffee table, and the small table by the galley kitchen all boasted the same exquisite craftsmanship. Observing my reaction to the room, Rylee chimed in, "All the furniture is locally made. I came across it at a craft fair the year we moved here, and I instantly fell in love. It didn't quite match our house," she admitted with a hint of embarrassment. "It's true," I interjected, understanding her sentiment. A faint smile graced Rylee's lips as she nodded in agreement. "But it was just so beautiful, I knew it would be perfect for this cottage. It hasn't been used much as a guest house, but it should have everything you need." Pointing towards different areas of the room, Rylee continued, "There's a small kitchen right over there. You're more than welcome to join Carl and me for meals. I promise, my cooking is much better than that coffee cake. The bathroom is on the other side, and while we do have internet, it's not the fastest." "It looks great. Before I settle in, I'll need to check your alarm system and possibly install additional sensors and cameras. Are you comfortable with me freely moving around, letting myself in and out of the house?" I posed the question, fully aware of how it might unsettle her. I already knew the answer before she responded. The thought of me entering and exiting her house without her knowledge would undoubtedly make her uneasy. Too bad. This arrangement wouldn't work if I had to ring the doorbell every time I needed access. Biting her lip, Rylee shrugged her shoulders awkwardly, attempting to mask her discomfort. "Of course, yes, that's fine. Carl doesn't have preschool today, so we'll be around. I'll make sure he doesn't get in your way," she finally conceded. "He's perfectly fine. I enjoy being around kids," I reassured her. "In that case, I'll let you get settled and attend to making the bed and getting some fresh towels." In a heartbeat, she disappeared through the door, her flip-flops slapping against her heels in an uneven rhythm. Rylee Smith was nothing like I had anticipated. The photo we had on file showed a polished and sophisticated woman, her straight hair gently grazing her shoulders. The pearls around her neck matched the buttons on her understated twin set. She stood by her husband's side, a tight smile plastered across her face as they posed for a charity event. Trey Smith had exuded smugness and contentment, while Rylee appeared trapped. I couldn't explain why that word lingered in my mind whenever I glanced at that photograph. Trapped. Why trapped? On the surface, they seemed like a beautiful couple, blessed with prosperity and security. However, there was something amiss in her eyes, the way she stood beside her husband but not truly with him. I had expected the perfectly put-together woman in the twin set. With her rigid posture and polished exterior, she made for an easy suspect. But this Rylee was different. Her hair cascaded in soft, dark curls, devoid of any adornments. She wore minimal makeup and instead of a twin set, she sported worn jeans with frayed hems, a T-shirt that had seen better days, and pink flip-flops. This Rylee wasn't just a photograph clipped from a newspaper. She was real, flesh and blood. And she wasn't trapped, but rather, she was consumed by fear. Sooner or later, I would uncover the reason behind it. And when I did, everything would change.
Chapter Four
Preston A small voice broke the silence, "My dad's dead." I lowered my gaze to find Rylee's son standing at the foot of the ladder. I was in the midst of installing new cameras under the eaves, but Carl Smith had something important to share. His crystal blue eyes, reminiscent of the Caribbean Sea, met mine as his tousled white-blonde hair tousled over his tanned forehead. Matter-of-factly, he delivered the news of his father's passing. Expressing my condolences, I nodded solemnly and said, "I know. I'm sorry." Carl jerked his shoulder in a manner identical to his mother's just an hour ago. "It's okay," he responded, "my mom and I are managing." Again, I nodded in understanding. Carl stood there, hands hanging loosely by his sides, observing with curious eyes as I tightened the screws on the dark gray camera, seamlessly blending it into the underside of the eave. "Is that camera supposed to keep the bad guys away? Will it protect our house?" he asked, his innocence shining through. Curiosity piqued, I questioned him, maintaining a light tone, "What do you know about bad guys?" Although he was only five years old, I couldn't help but probe for any useful information. Carl narrowed his blue eyes, considering his response before saying, "I know a few times the alarm went off. Deputy Calvin came." "Is that all?" I probed further. Wary, he glanced over his shoulder before revealing, "Mom's been worried." Carl paused, swallowing hard. "She tries to act like everything's fine, but since Dad's been gone..." His voice trailed off. Seizing the opportunity, I pushed, feeling like an asshole, "Since your dad's been gone, she's been worried? Or was she worried even before?" Carl's gaze dropped to the ground, and he kicked the toe of his sneaker into the dirt, revealing the darker loam beneath the cinnamon-brown pine needles. After a moment, he straightened his posture, standing with his feet together in an almost military stance. Lifting his chin, he bravely declared, "Before, too. My dad wasn't home a lot. Sometimes they used to argue. Then she'd get sad and worry more. Will you fix it?" Slightly uncertain, I replied, "I'm going to try." "How do I know you're not one of the bad guys?" Carl asked, his skepticism shining through. Impressed by his astuteness, I reassured him, "I promise you, I'm not. I'm not the bad guy." I knew, without a doubt, that I was not the villain in this story. I had confidence in myself, as well as in Carl Smith. As for everyone else, their intentions were still unclear. I couldn't guarantee things would go smoothly for Rylee until I understood how deeply involved she was in her husband's business. In my father's business. Ever since my brothers and I stumbled upon the first of our father's secrets, I discovered the extent to which betrayal could run. For five years, we mourned my father's death, only to find out he was alive and on the run from the Russian mob. By faking his death, he had abandoned us once. Now, he had made us targets for the mob's revenge. With my father out of reach, they demanded that we repay what he had stolen. The problem was, we had no idea what he took or how to retrieve it. What little we did know could barely fit on a postcard. My father and a few accomplices were involved in all sorts of illicit activities, from questionable adoptions to trafficking for the Russian mob. Following the money trail that moved in and out of my father's hidden accounts led us straight to Trey Smith. Smith, and possibly Rylee, were entangled in this web of crime. The child standing before me had no connection to his parents' wrongdoings. He didn't deserve to be interrogated for information, but Andrei Tsepov had threatened my mother, and time was running out. If he didn't get what he wanted, my family would suffer the consequences. I couldn't afford to leave Carl in peace. I needed answers, and I needed them now. Suddenly, a screen door slammed shut behind the house. Rylee's voice carried through the wind, laced with panic. She tried to hide it, but fear was unmistakable in her words. In the distance, the sound of tires crunching gravel echoed through the trees. A car was approaching down the long driveway. Carl called out innocently, "I'm over here, Mom." Rylee appeared from around the side of the house, her strides devouring the ground as she tightly pressed her lips together. "What are you doing outside? You know you're not allowed to leave the house without telling me," she scolded, reaching his side and wrapping an arm around his shoulders with a relieved squeeze. "I was just helping Mr... I was just helping..." Carl looked up at me, realizing we hadn't been properly introduced. I descended the ladder, extending my hand to Carl, who shook it with a firm grip despite his small fingers. "Preston Thompson," I introduced myself, "from Thompson Security." Carl nodded seriously in return. "I'm Carl Smith." "He's not permitted to be outside without an adult," Rylee stated, her gaze drifting toward the lake, glistening in the sun less than a hundred feet away. "I know you're not a babysitter, and he's a good swimmer, but that's the rule. I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye out. Sometimes he forgets."Rylee enveloped her son in another affectionate squeeze, playfully tickling his underarm. He giggled and nestled into her side. "Mom, I was only out here for a minute—" The sound of an engine hum interrupted Carl's protest. All three of us turned our attention to a police cruiser making its way down the gravel drive. Rylee tensed beside me, her lips pressed together and her eyes narrow. Carl broke free from his mother's grasp and dashed towards the vehicle, shouting, "Deputy Calvin!" I instinctively reached out and grabbed Carl's wrist, preventing him from getting too close. "Wait until it comes to a stop, Carl. You have to be cautious around cars." Carl relaxed under my grip. "He wasn't going to hit me." "You can't be so sure," Rylee chimed in with a sigh. "We've talked about this, Carl. You need to be careful. He might not have seen you." Unaware of the scolding happening behind him, a uniformed police officer emerged from the car and approached us with a friendly smile for Rylee and Carl, but a cold glare directed at me. "Calvin," Rylee greeted him, attempting to sound amiable. But I could detect the nerves beneath her smile. Was I the only one who noticed? "Is everything alright?" she asked. "Everything's fine," Calvin replied. "I was heading out to grab a cup of coffee and realized I hadn't checked in on you in over a week. Thought I'd swing by and see how you're doing." "Mr. Thompson is here to fix the alarm," Carl piped up, eager to share some adult news. Rylee's gaze shifted to me. "Calvin, this is..." "The officer asked, his eyes suspiciously scanning me. I met his gaze, refusing to back down. Calvin was of average height, a few inches shorter than me. His face had a forgettable quality to it, with dark hair and eyes that didn't stand out. He wasn't particularly attractive, nor was he unattractive. Maybe his friends found him interesting, but on first impression, the only thing remarkable about him was his annoyance. Carl seemed at ease in his presence, but Rylee clearly wasn't, despite her attempts to pretend otherwise. Calvin extended his hand towards me. "Deputy David Harris. I was a good friend of Rylee's husband, and I consider myself a friend of Rylee and Carl's." He tried to exert dominance with his handshake, but I maintained a calm smile and reciprocated with a firm grip, only releasing my hand from his hold with a quick flick of my wrist. I had long outgrown such childish displays. I could take Deputy Harris down in an instant. Squeezing my knuckles during a handshake proved nothing, except that Calvin thought he was the alpha around here and wanted to make sure I knew it too. Dismissing me, he turned his attention back to Rylee. "If you needed help with the alarm, I could have recommended someone." "I appreciate that, Calvin. But it's fine. Preston's company installed the system in the first place, and he happened to be available today. It all worked out." "I know you've been worried about the alarm, but if you'd just remember to turn it on..." Calvin's voice trailed off, accompanied by a sympathetic glance in my direction, as if we needed to humor the forgetful woman who couldn't handle those complicated buttons. I wasn't sure if I imagined the sound of Rylee's teeth grinding together before she forced herself to relax and replied, "Calvin, I've told you countless times, I never forget to set the alarm." "I know, honey, I know," he consoled her, patting her shoulder. This time, I knew her clenched jaw wasn't my imagination. I barely knew the guy, yet I had an overwhelming urge to smack him. I admired Rylee for maintaining her composure. Deputy Calvin gave her a condescending smile and blatantly said, "I never did get that coffee." Knowing her cue, Rylee responded, "I was just about to brew a pot. Would you like to come in? Do you have time for a break? I made a fresh coffee cake to go with it." "I always have time for a break with you, Rylee. And I'd love some coffee cake." Carl stifled a laugh and shot me a quick glance. Either Calvin had never tasted Rylee's coffee cake, or he had no taste buds. I hoped her cooking was better than her baking. Otherwise, I'd have to make an excuse not to join them for dinner and make a trip to the grocery store in town. Rylee's coffee cake had been dry and flavorless, both salty and bland at the same time. I was almost willing to suffer through another slice just to witness Deputy Calvin's reaction. "I could use a break too," I interjected. "Do you have enough coffee for me?" The scowl on Deputy Calvin's face was worth every bite of Rylee's coffee cake. He was an old friend of the deceased husband, and now he was cozying up to the widow. Was it because he was interested in her? Or were they working together? If Calvin Harris had his sights set on Rylee Smith, I couldn't blame him. I couldn't decide if she reminded me of a woodland fairy or a skittish deer. Her delicate chin, full lower lip, and curvaceous figure... Yeah, I had no trouble believing Calvin Harris was making a move on his buddy's widow, but Rylee's unease around him didn't sit right with me. Calvin strolled alongside Rylee as they walked back towards the house. Carl and I trailed behind. In a hushed tone, I asked, "Does Deputy Calvin visit often?" Carl shrugged his shoulder. "Sometimes. He even comes over for dinner sometimes. He used to do that when my dad was alive." Carl's gaze shifted towards the lake, and I decided to drop the subject.He was just a boy, and the absence of his father still fresh. I didn't want to reopen his wounds unnecessarily. The scent of vanilla lingered in the kitchen even after Rylee blew out the candle. She grabbed the coffee cake from the pantry and sliced four pieces, then went to work setting up the coffee maker for a full pot. The sound of steam and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Rylee's baking skills might have been lacking, but she knew how to make a good cup of joe. "Not much happening in town today?" she asked Calvin, glancing over her shoulder. "Not since we handled the post-church traffic. Sundays, you know," Calvin replied. Rylee smiled ruefully. "Tourist season always brings a bit of chaos." Deputy Calvin nodded gratefully, accepting the plate of coffee cake she handed him. "Looks delicious, Rylee." Carl, Rylee's son, smirked beside his mom, mischief dancing in his blue eyes. When our gazes met, I winked, eliciting a burst of giggles from him. The sound of his laughter, pure and joyful, brought a smile to my face. Rylee handed me my own plate of coffee cake, which I set on the kitchen island. Carl shook his head at his mom, knowing he didn't need to try the coffee cake again to know it was terrible. The three of us watched as Deputy Calvin took a big bite and chewed, visibly suppressing his urge to grimace at the dry, salty, slightly metallic taste. There was too much baking powder and salt, not enough sugar. It was clear that Deputy Calvin was trying to get into Rylee Smith's pants. Only a man with ulterior motives would suffer through that coffee cake. And suffer he did, forcing a smile as he chewed and swallowed, his eyes darting between Rylee and me, suspicious and possessive. "Preston Thompson? Thompson Security?" I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning against the counter. Rylee placed a steaming mug of coffee beside me, and I gave her a grateful smile. Calvin took his mug without acknowledging her. "You're based out of Atlanta, right?" Another nod. Calvin took a step closer to Rylee, washing down the dry cake with a sip of coffee as he positioned himself beside her. Rylee took a sip from her refreshed mug and subtly moved a step away, creating distance between them. How long had Deputy Calvin been trying to seduce Rylee Smith? Since his best friend died? Or even before? But Rylee didn't seem interested. Her shoulders were tense, nearly touching her ears, and she leaned away from Calvin as much as she could without being too obvious. She wanted space. Either he didn't pick up on the hint, or he simply didn't care. Calvin placed the plate of coffee cake on the counter. "Quite a journey for an alarm upgrade. Wouldn't it have been easier to find someone local? There are some reputable companies in Boston." I shrugged. "Trey Smith was one of my father's special clients. If Mrs. Smith needs help, we're here for her." Calvin inched even closer to Rylee, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and giving her an affectionate squeeze. A flicker of pain crossed Rylee's face before she masked it with a blank smile. The panic in her eyes made me want to reach out and pull her away from him. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking, and that had to change. I always thought before I acted. Always. No matter what my gut was telling me about protecting Rylee, I needed to be smart. She appeared vulnerable, like a defenseless fawn, but looks could be deceiving. Rylee Smith was hiding something from me. Maybe she felt uncomfortable around Calvin because he desired her, and she didn't reciprocate. Or maybe she felt uncomfortable because they had been sleeping together for years, had conspired to kill her husband, and now I was in the way. Rylee had called me, poking holes in that theory, but people panicked. She hadn't expected me when I showed up at her door. Perhaps she regretted making that call. Maybe all she wanted was for me to leave and get out of her and Deputy Calvin's way. Calvin, either oblivious to Rylee's tension or uncaring, gave another affectionate squeeze to her shoulder. "I keep telling you, honey, if you remember to set the alarm, you won't have anything to worry about. Preston can vouch for it, his company installed a solid system. You don't need any upgrades, you just need to remember to use it. I know you've been forgetful since Trey died. You haven't been yourself lately." His gaze shifted to Carl, who was poking holes in my coffee cake and watching it crumble into a mess on the plate. Calvin's eyes returned to Rylee as he murmured, "You have a lot on your plate, and it's been a difficult year. No one would blame you if you can't handle everything on your own." Rylee stiffened and moved away from Calvin, placing her mug in the sink. Her friend, the Deputy, seemed determined to convince everyone that Rylee was scatterbrained and irresponsible. Rylee's frantic message contradicted that notion, and nothing about her suggested scatterbrained or irresponsible behavior. She wasn't foolish; she was afraid. Watching Calvin watch her, my gut told me that Rylee Smith had a good reason to be scared. I just needed to uncover what that reason was.
Chapter Five
Rylee "It has to be here somewhere," I muttered, the words slipping from my lips like a broken record. I had repeated that phrase countless times in the past hour, in the past few months. This wasn't my first search of Trey's office. My husband had always been meticulous, everything in its place. Keys hung on the hook by the back door, shoes lined up neatly in his closet, and his pen perfectly aligned on his desk. But somehow, he had managed to misplace or misfile every piece of paperwork I needed. Utility bills from years ago were meticulously organized, but the documents I required now seemed to have vanished into thin air. I had access to our bank accounts and homeowner's insurance. I had copies of our son Carl's shot records and Trey's will. But none of that mattered now. The arrival of Preston Thompson in our lives had shaken everything. Carl and I had been stuck in a monotonous routine, not ready to face what came next. As I lay in bed the night before, it hit me. Preston Thompson was here to keep us safe. Fantastic. Now I could sleep at night. But the truth was, sleep eluded me. Preston could offer security, but he couldn't offer freedom. Sure, he could drain my bank account with his services, but then what? What were we going to do? Stay in this house forever? Black Rock may have been picturesque and the people kind, but it wasn't where I belonged. It wasn't my life. This was the life Trey had wanted, the life he had tried to convince me was what I wanted too. But now that he was gone, I should have been able to leave, to determine my own path. Instead, I was trapped here, bound by Trey's secrets and my own ignorance. Somewhere in this house, there was a key to setting us free. I just had to find it. And time was running out. Keeping Carl safe was my top priority. Nothing else mattered more than my son. All my life, all I had ever wanted was to be a mother. While other little girls dreamed of becoming doctors or movie stars, I dreamt of being a mom and a wife. I yearned for a family, to cook dinners and match socks, to drive my kids to games and practices, to read them bedtime stories and engage in make-believe. Those dreams had always been met with disappointment from my parents. They couldn't understand why I didn't aspire to be a lawyer, a professor, a ballet dancer, or anything else deemed more ambitious. In their eyes, my desire to raise children was a waste of my potential. "You have so much potential," they would say, urging me to pursue internships and meaningful careers instead of wasting my life on children. It was a relief when they disowned me after I married Trey. At least I didn't have to endure their constant "I told you so's." When Trey gave up on trying to conceive, it shattered me. He refused to seek medical help or even discuss alternative options. He claimed everything would work itself out, but he never explained what that meant. Distance grew between us. He traveled more, and our intimacy dwindled. I began to question if I had made a mistake, and then everything changed. That night, the first snow of the year blanketed the roads, making them treacherous.My heart raced as I anxiously awaited Trey's arrival from the airport. The sound of the garage door rumbling open brought an unexpected rush of relief. I hurried to meet him at the door, eager to take his bags and greet him with open arms. But instead, I was met with a surprising sight. There he stood, holding a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. He handed it to me, and as I looked down, my eyes were met with a tiny, scrunched face topped with a cloud of wispy, white-blond hair. In that moment, I knew I had fallen head over heels in love. Everything changed with the arrival of Carl. I was so consumed by the joy of finally having the child I had always longed for that I failed to notice Trey's constant traveling and closed office door. I turned a blind eye when he started sleeping in the guest room, accepting his vague excuses without question. And I couldn't help but wonder why our adopted son bore such a striking resemblance to my husband. In my elation, Trey had given me the one thing I had always dreamed of, and I foolishly let him off the hook for everything else. But now, I realized I had been a fool. I had buried myself in motherhood, allowing it to consume me completely, and now we were paying the price. Being a mother was everything I had ever imagined, but in all my dreams of hugs and bedtime stories, I had never anticipated the overwhelming fear of not being enough. The fear of not being able to protect my child. The fear of failing him. I had to find what I needed. But where should I start? Standing in the middle of Trey's office, I took a slow turn to survey the room. It resembled something out of a magazine, with its gentlemanly aesthetic. A tobacco brown leather sofa, dark woodwork, a Persian rug, and a massive mahogany desk. Trey's brown leather chair adorned with brass nubs. Not a computer in sight, only a blotter and a crystal and brass pen holder. Trey's laptop was hidden away in a drawer. I pulled it out and opened it, typing in his password – Carl. Not very clever, I thought. The home screen appeared before me, and I stared at it blankly. This wasn't the first time I had searched Trey's computer. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, hoping for a different outcome. Well, call me crazy because I was about to embark on yet another search. After thirty minutes of opening folders, scrolling through documents, and repeating the process, I closed the laptop. There was nothing there. It couldn't be right. I knew it couldn't be right. Trey used his laptop for everything, didn't he? There were a few files that seemed related to his business, an accounting app perhaps. But apart from that, the laptop was strangely empty. It almost felt like a decoy, intentionally designed to look like Trey's laptop without actually being used. The mere idea of another laptop made my stomach twist with unease. If this laptop was indeed a decoy, the implications were staggering. A second laptop meant Trey had something significant to hide. It revealed a level of deceit and premeditation that shattered the image I had of him. I wasn't ready to accept that truth. I wasn't ready to believe that my husband was involved in secretive business dealings. I desperately wanted to cling to the notion that he was simply a disorganized record keeper. But that excuse crumbled when I discovered the meticulously organized drawers filled with bills. A man who meticulously kept every cable bill for years was not someone who lacked attention to detail. No, a man like that would be skilled in hiding his secrets. I glared at the useless laptop on the desk, hoping it would offer answers it was incapable of providing. Pushing myself away from the desk, I made my way to the closet. A walk-in closet with shelves on one side and built-in file cabinets on the other. I had searched this space countless times before, and now I was about to do it again. I refused to accept that what I needed might not be within the confines of this house. I couldn't bear the thought that it may have disappeared along with Trey. Somewhere in this room, I knew it existed. I had caught a glimpse of it once upon a time. And I was determined to find it. For Carl's sake, I had to.
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