Page 16 of The Maverick

“She already knows most of it,” Hawke said. “What she doesn’t know is how close this bastard’s gotten.”

Gavin stood. “You’ll have to tell her soon.”

Hawke gave a curt nod. “I will. Once I’m sure it won’t undo the work I’m doing to keep her from running again.”

He unplugged the drive, slid it back into his pocket, and turned for the door.

Reed called after him. “You sure you’re not too close to this?”

Hawke didn’t stop walking. “I’m the only one close enough to handle it.”

And that, more than anything, was the damn truth.

Hawke hit the top step in his cabin, spotted her immediately in his bedroom, and bit back the first response that came to mind.

Vanessa was curled in his chair, legs tucked under her, his laptop balanced on the ottoman. She furrowed her brow as she clicked through a folder labeledFan Messages—Archived. Her mouth moved slightly, like she was silently mouthing words as she read. She hadn’t heard him come in.

Which made his point for him.

“You’re not supposed to be up here.”

She jumped, shutting the laptop instinctively and swinging her legs to the floor. “Jesus, could you wear a bell or something?”

He crossed the room, slow and deliberate, stopping just short of her. “I told you to rest.”

“I did. Then I got bored. Then I got curious.”

“That wasn’t an invitation to break into my system.”

“I didn’t break anything.” She stood, chin lifted. “You left it open. I just… leaned in.”

“Vanessa.” His tone was low now. “You don’t go through my files. Ever. You want access, you ask.”

“Would you have said yes?”

He didn’t answer. Because she already knew.

She sighed, brushing a curl from her face. “I wasn’t snooping for dirt. I was looking for patterns. Something that might trigger recognition.”

He crossed his arms. “And?”

Her eyes dropped. “There’s a message from someone tagged ‘Reader 3782’ that feels off. He references scenes fromSins of the Flame, but the phrasing… it’s possessive. Familiar… almost like he thinks he’s talking to the character, not me.”

Hawke took the laptop, opened it again, and found the thread she’d left open. The last message was from six weeks ago.

“I know you don’t respond, but I see the way you write her. She’s not fiction. She’s you. And you know I’d never let anything happen to you. Not again.”

He stilled.

“This isn’t just a reader,” she said, watching him carefully. “He’s inserting himself into the narrative. Like he thinks he belongs in it.”

Hawke scanned the metadata. No IP data logged. No name, no linked account. Whoever this was knew how to keep his digital signature minimal.

“Why didn’t you flag this?” he asked.

Her voice was quieter now. “Because it didn’t seem threatening. Creepy? Sure. But I get dozens of messages that blur the lines between fiction and fantasy. Occupational hazard.”

He hated that. Hated the way she said it like it was normal. Like it was something she just accepted.

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