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He turns toward me.Smiles like we’re in on the same secret.

“You’re safe now,” he says.“You don’t need to worry.”

The word vibrates through me.

“I know.”

“Your debt will be paid soon.Then you can decide what you want to do.”He flashes a smile, then gestures around the room.“But I have a feeling you’ll never leave.Why would you?”

“I was sick,” I tell him, the way we rehearsed it.

He nods once.Walks to the door.

Just before he leaves, he looks back.

“Tomorrow’s a big day,” he says.“Don’t be nervous.”

I listen to him walk away.

But this time, I don’t wait for permission.

The window’s narrowing.

If Vance is dead, I move.

And if he’s not?—

He’s already on his way.

49

Vance

The notebook opens to the same page it always does.Third page.Top-left corner.Rachel Holt.Circled.No slash.No closure.

Just the next name on the list, a mistake about to be rectified.The kind of woman who talks about her daughter’s rare “illness” at wine tastings, who hires a photographer to catch her “candid” grief.Her GoFundMe was well optimized.The kid’s records were too fragmented.I saw it in a six-second clip someone reposted without sound—Rachel touched her kid like she was posing with a prize she didn’t want to hold.

She lives in a one-story house with a coral front door and fake terracotta planters.Security camera just above eye level.The neighborhood’s full of families who think ordering monogrammed doormats counts as home security.The kind that thinks “private” means safe.

I watch her for three days.

She leaves at 8:17 every morning.Alone.Sunglasses.Phone pressed to her ear like she’s handling urgent business.She isn’t.I track the calls.Gym.Dry cleaner.Ava’s school.Once, she stood on the curb and told someone over speaker that she’s being harassed again.Her voice shakes in all the right places.

On the second day, I follow her to a juice bar.She tells a woman at the next table her ex is stalking her.That she’s afraid.That she’s had to move twice.She says it with perfect posture, smiling as though fear’s just another product she’s selling between Pilates and Pinot.

She doesn’t lead me anywhere.Just loops.

So on the fourth night, I stop waiting.

At 10:04, the lights go out in sequence—kitchen, hallway, bedroom.I wait six minutes, then move.

The lock is new, but the alarm code’s four digits and sloppily entered.She’s been careful for so long she’s gotten lazy.

I’m inside before she knows she’s not alone.

Or maybe she does know.

I step inside.