Page 8 of Nate Hayes

“On the plane.”

“Eat?”

“Jerky.”

“Still a robot, I see.”

Axel grinned slightly. “Let’s get to work.”

I filled him in while he unpacked his gear—drone, high-res cameras, and a laptop that could probably reroute satellites if we asked nicely. He listened silently, nodding once when I mentioned the photo.

“Guy’s escalating,” he said. “Leaving that picture was bait.”

“I’m not biting,” I said. “I’m building the damn trap.”

We were halfway through syncing the security feed to a secure line when I heard the creak of the floorboards behind me.

Willa.

She stood there still in my flannel, her hair a wild halo of blonde waves, blinking like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or about to yell at someone.

“Um. You invited company?” she asked groggily.

Axel turned around. “Ma’am.”

She blinked at him, then me. “Is this… another SEAL?”

“He’s the quiet one,” I said.

Axel gave her a nod. “Name’s Axel. I’m here to help keep you alive.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Cool. Do you want pancakes or…?”

“Always,” Axel said seriously.

She disappeared into the kitchen, and I swear to God, that mansmiled.

But the lightness didn’t last.

Because five minutes later, I went out to check the porch cam—and found a white envelope wedged under the doormat.

It hadn’t been there when Axel arrived.

Someone had been watching. Waiting.

This one didn’t have my name.

It had hers.

Willa Mae Jensen. In the same black scrawl as before.

I opened it carefully, jaw clenched tight.

Inside was another photo.

This time, it wasme—standing at the farmers market last Saturday, talking to her. She had her hand on her waist, laughing.

The message on the back was written in block letters:

---