Page 29 of The Tracker

“I need to know you’re still in there, Evvy.”

Still, only silence.

“I think I recognized the blinds,” she whispered, gaze still fixed on some point beyond the room. “The angle of the light. It’s Peter’s office. Late. He always stayed too late.”

Dawson swallowed against the grit in his throat. “That’s where they found him. No signs of forced entry. Security footage wiped. Clean job.”

“Too clean.”

“Yeah.”

Her fingers twitched in her lap, loosening for just a breath before tightening again. “The letter opener… it’s mine.”

“I know.”

“They wanted me to know.”

“I know that too.”

The image etched itself into Dawson’s mind—Peter slumped over the desk, his face resting on a scatter of paperwork, the scene almost peaceful but for the unmistakable protrusion of a silver hilt, embedded cleanly between his shoulder blades. The weapon wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Personal.

There’d been no overturned chair, no scattered files, no evidence of a struggle. Just the eerie calm of a man posed like he’d fallen asleep—until you looked closer and saw the message for what it was: not chaos, but control. A silent signature rendered in blood.

“Peter gave me that opener as a gift,” she said, voice going glassy.

“It wasn’t about Peter,” Dawson said. “This wasn’t retribution. It was precision. Targeted. You.”

Her jaw worked, a tiny twitch beneath the cheekbone. “Whoever did it, they knew how to hurt me without making a mess.”

His chest hollowed. “That’s not the kind of message someone sends unless they want you off balance. Vulnerable.”

She turned to him fully then, finally. “Then they picked the wrong woman.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—barely—but there was no humor in it. “Damn right they did.”

For a moment, just a flicker, she looked like herself again. Not the fragile thing in borrowed cotton and silence. But the steel underneath. The woman who’d refused to fall apart.

But it didn’t last. Her eyes drifted back toward the shadows beyond the bed.

“Did you tell Gavin and Jesse?” she asked. “What about the police?”

Dawson nodded. “I called it in this morning. The team is already working on it. They’re scrubbing feeds, tracing any digital footprints. So far, nothing.” He paused. “They’re staying close.”

Her chin dipped in a near nod. “Good.”

Dawson stepped farther into the room, careful. Slow. His boots barely made a sound across the hardwood. He crouched beside the bed, close but not touching. Her hands remained knotted. So did his chest.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s just started.”

The silence stretched, not in discomfort but in solidarity—two warriors bracing for the next move. Dawson rose slowly, one last glance at Evangeline anchoring him as he crossed to the desk.

His comm crackled to life.

“Dawson, what's your status?” Gavin’s voice came online, crisp and clipped.

Dawson shifted his weight, eyes scanning the dim corners of the loft like a man waiting for a breach. “Loft is clear. Evangeline’s quiet, but alert—holding her ground. Keep the perimeter tight and eyes sharp—I don’t want any surprises.”

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