CHAPTER 5

First: security.

I step into the hall, grab my phone, and call an emergency locksmith. New deadbolts. Double key. Chain lock. Discreet install. I want it sealed tighter than Fort Knox before sundown.

Then the alarm company. Her place isn’t monitored—yet. By morning, it will be. I override the wait period not caring about the rush fee.

I head to my car, pop the trunk, and pull a Ziploc and gloves from one of the stocked boxes. Judge me when you live in this city and have OCD.

Back upstairs, Mari sits with her arms around her knees, rocking.

I don’t speak.

Just glove up, lift the condom from the trash using a tissue, and seal it in the bag.

“I’m calling someone to pick this up,” I tell her. “He probably didn’t leave DNA—but we’ll try.”

She doesn’t answer, but her jaw clenches. Soon, her aunt arrives and I can breathe easier knowing someone is here with her.

He’s wearing her down.

That’s the point.

He’s not trying to kill her—yet.

He wants her to wish she were dead first.

Travis Gannon is a serial rapist. I see the pattern.

The women are spaced out—just enough. But once I connected the dots, it was obvious.

He hunts in three-month cycles near his buddy’s apartment.

He hunts women he often sees alone. No children, and no pets so he can live out his fantasy.

The pattern is not in the women but in what he does at the scene. It’s something specific. Probably from his childhood. His abusive father and the mother that didn’t protect him.

And she is the one he blames.

He makes them cook for him. Yells at them before he beats them. Ties them up and rapes them.

After he cleans, he loosens the bindings—not enough to escape. Just enough to give hope.

And I realized why: He wants to watch.

He said he liked Chase’s apartment for the view but it’s not the bridge or the city.

Travis returns to his friends’ apartment and goes out onto the balcony. He waits and listens for sirens.

He wants to witness the aftermath and feel the power of what he did.

Since his arrest—since posting bail—there haven’t been any new assaults.

He’s starving.

And men like Travis don’t manage hunger.

He’ll escalate. Evolve.

He’ll kill.

If we don’t stop him—if I don’t—Mari may be first.

I text one of the few officers I trust to collect the evidence.

Back in the car, Mari as safe as I can make her, I drive to my mom’s and dial Benjamin.

He answers with a sigh I can hear through Bluetooth.

“What now?”

“Please,” I say. “One patrol car. Parked outside her building. Just tonight. I’ll owe you big.”

He pauses and I hear him tapping his fingers, thinking about what it would cost him to tell me no.

Finally he lets out a huff. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up as I pull onto Mom’s street.

The sky is soft—cotton clouds and golden light, like the world doesn’t know someone’s out there planning to destroy a girl trying to survive.

I kill the engine and close my eyes.

Mari is alive.

For now.

But if I blink—if I breathe wrong—she won’t be.

And I finally get it.

The system isn’t broken, it’s slow.

And Travis Gannon is not.

When Mari needs help, the law won’t get there in time.

I come bearing emergency annotation tabs and emotional damage.

The annotation tabs are for my mom’s book club—color-coded little rectangles of joy that she swears by for keeping track of plot twists, foreshadowing, and the exact paragraph where she decided a character deserved to die.

She called earlier in full-blown panic mode, claiming her last pink tab betrayed her and curled at the corner.

So naturally, I stopped by the office supply store on my way over.

Because if there’s one thing I understand, it’s the importance of good stationery.

She meets me at the door still in her pajamas and bathrobe. That means she picked up her book this morning and probably only put it down to answer the door.

“You brought them!” she gasps, snatching the little packet from my hand like it’s an organ transplant.

“I live to serve,” I say, holding up a second pack. “Bonus yellows. And limited-edition dragon-scale ones. You’re welcome.”

She gives me that look—the one she used when I was ten and brought home a glittered-up diorama of the Boston Tea Party—and pulls me into a quick side-hug.

But the moment she gets a good look at my face, her smile wavers.

“It’s that client again, isn’t it?” she asks gently, ushering me inside.

I don’t answer. I just make a beeline for the kitchen, drop my bag onto the bench, and fold like a lawn chair over the marble counter.

The stone is cool. Soothing. Emotionally supportive, like an expensive therapist with zero judgment.

“Yes,” I mumble into the countertop. “It’s Mariela.”

Mom doesn’t ask for details. Not yet. She knows better than to crowd the story.

Instead, she hums softly, opens the fridge, and starts assembling a sandwich. Ham, sharp cheddar, lettuce, tomato—light mayo, no mustard. Diagonal cut, obviously. I’m not an uncultured savage. It hits the plate like a love letter from the universe.

I wasn’t even hungry.

But I eat it.

Between bites, I talk.

I tell her about the hotel. The note. The condom. My fear.

And the worst part?

How powerless I feel. Like I’m screaming into a canyon and the only thing echoing back is paperwork.

Mom doesn’t interrupt. She just pours me a glass of sparkling water with lemon, like hydration might stop my brain from spiraling.

When I don’t talk for a while, she pats my hand, trying to move the heavy burden from my shoulders, if only for a little while.

“Come to book club with me.” There’s a hopeful sparkle in her blue eyes that makes me hesitate. But who are we kidding? She never leaves the house, so if Mom invites me out... I’m going.

“Are you still reading about the dark fae prince with blue skin who broods for a living?” I roll my eyes. It’s fairy smut.

Which, from what I can tell, is 90 percent smoldering eye contact, 10 percent plot, and one very horny prince who may or may not be made of shadows.

But she loves it. And that’s what matters.

“Yes. But it’s his cousin who is the real star of the court.”

Mmm, right.

“The raven?”

“Crow.” She corrects, walking back into her room to change clothes.

We head out together, and I try to be present. I try not to check my phone every five minutes. I try not to let my brain slide back into the echo chamber of what-ifs that have taken up residence behind my eyes.

Sebastian helps some, sending me pictures of his possible date outfits as he gets ready for his millionth first date of the year.

But somewhere between the driveway and the start of the book discussion, I start biting the inside of my cheek.

Same spot. Over and over. Sharp, repetitive. Familiar.