Page 87 of Beckett
We followed him through more hallways that I was pretty sure he’d designed that way solely to be confusing. The kitchen, when we reached it, was another contradiction. Restaurant-grade appliances, copper pots hanging from a rack, a knife block that would make a chef weep. All pristine, but the lingering smell of actual cooking said this room, at least, saw regular use.
“Sit.” Travis pointed at barstools along a massive island. He moved to the coffeemaker—some Italian thing with more buttons than the shower—and started measuring beans with scientific precision. “I have leftover chicken potpie from yesterday. Homemade.”
“You cook?” Audra sounded surprised.
“I eat,” Travis said simply. “Restaurants require leaving the house and interacting with people who don’t wash their hands properly.”
He pulled a dish from the refrigerator, portioned it onto plates with careful attention to equal serving sizes. The microwave hummed. The coffeemaker gurgled and hissed. Normal sounds that felt surreal after nearly drowning.
The coffee came first, served in matching mugs that were exactly two inches apart on the counter. Then the potpie, steam rising, pastry golden even reheated. My stomach clenched at the smell—I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until food appeared.
“This is incredible,” Audra said after her first bite.
Travis almost smiled. “Recipe took six attempts to perfect. The butter-to-flour ratio in the crust was particularly challenging.”
We ate while Travis talked, explaining what he’d found over the past days of digging into Audra’s situation. He’d already told me some of it, but hearing it again, watching Audra’s face as she learned how thoroughly she’d been hunted—it made my jaw clench.
“Your instincts were right about how the stalker was finding you. Credit card usage first,” Travis said, pulling up data on a tablet. “Every time you used one, he could track it. When you switched to cash, he adapted. Electronic payments from employers, motel registrations requiring ID—all breadcrumbs.”
“I tried to be careful,” Audra said.
“You were. When those dried up, it looks like he switched to image searches.” Travis showed her something on the screen that made her pale. “Any photo of you anywhere online, even in the background of someone else’s picture. The technology exists to find those matches in seconds.”
“So he could search for my face and find me anywhere someone posted a photo?”
“If you were visible in it, yes. A tourist’s Instagram from a coffee shop, a business’s social media post, security footage that gets uploaded to community watch sites.” Travis set the tablet down. “The dedication required is significant. This isn’t casual stalking.”
Audra pushed her empty plate away, her hand trembling slightly. “So anywhere I went, if someone took a picture…”
“He could find you within hours.” Travis stood, gathering our plates with precise movements, setting them in the sink at exact right angles. “Come on. There’s something else you need to see.”
Back in the control room, Travis pulled up files, his fingers flying across keyboards. Multiple windows opened across the main monitor. “This is the garage footage from your first attack,” he said. “What the police saw versus what actually happened.”
The first video showed Audra walking through a parking garage, getting in her car, driving away. Nothing unusual. The second made my blood pressure spike.
Even without sound, the violence was clear. Audra walking, checking behind her, speeding up. The figure in the black hoodie coming from nowhere, slamming her to the ground. Her cheek bleeding as he hauled her up by her hair, mouth moving with words we couldn’t hear.
“Eye for an eye,” Audra filled in, voice flat. “That’s what he said.”
“The editing was sophisticated,” Travis said. “Professional level. I’m not surprised the police missed it. Without knowing to look for artifacts in the encoding, I’d have missed it too.”
“The guy at the grocery store wore a black hoodie too,” I said, remembering the security footage Lachlan had shown us.
Travis nodded. “Standard stalker behavior. Nondescript clothing, face obscured. He knows what he’s doing.”
“At least there’s proof now,” Audra said quietly. Her voice caught, and she had to stop, pressing her fingers against her mouth. When she spoke again, the words came out broken. “I know you all believed me, but having actual evidence that I’m not…”
She trailed off, wrapping her arms around herself like she was trying to hold something in. Or maybe hold herself together.
“That you’re not what?” I asked gently, though I already knew.
“Crazy.” The word came out as barely a whisper. “Paranoid. Making it all up for attention, like the Seattle police thought. Like everyone eventually thinks when you tell them someone’s following you, but there’s never any proof.” Her laugh was bitter, sharp enough to draw blood. “Do you know how many times I’ve questioned my own sanity? Wondered if maybe they were all right, maybe I was having some kind of breakdown after Todd died?”
“Audra—”
“No, I need to say this.” She turned to face the monitor again, staring at the frozen image of herself being attacked. “Seeing this… It’s horrible, but it’s also…” She searched for words. “It’s validation. Proof that I haven’t lost my mind. That all those nights lying awake, terrified of shadows, jumping at every sound—it was real. He was real.”
“You were never making it up,” I said firmly. “Not for a second. Anyone who thought that was wrong.”
