Chapter 11 - The Stolen Peace
The glossy photograph slipped from my trembling fingers and fluttered onto the wooden planks of my porch.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it felt like it was trying to break through my chest.
I scooped up the picture, my eyes frantically scanning the empty street, the quiet beach, and the dense line of pine trees bordering my property.
There was no one there. The afternoon sun was shining brightly, but I felt completely frozen in a block of ice.
I ran back inside, slamming the heavy front door and throwing all three deadbolts in rapid succession.
My hands shook violently as I pulled out my phone and immediately dialed the direct line to the warden’s office at the state penitentiary.
I had memorized the number months ago, a paranoid habit that had finally proven entirely justified.
"State Penitentiary, Warden Miller's office," a tired receptionist answered.
"I need to check the status of an inmate immediately," I demanded, fighting to keep the sheer panic out of my voice. "Damon Vance. Inmate number 84729."
There was a long, agonizing pause filled with the clicking of a keyboard.
"Inmate Vance is currently in the recreation yard, ma'am. He has not left the facility," the receptionist replied flatly.
I ended the call and leaned against the locked door, gasping for air.
If Damon was still locked in a steel cage miles away, he could not have taken this photograph.
Someone else was standing outside my nursery window just moments ago. Someone Damon had sent.
I ran upstairs to the nursery, grabbing Lily from her crib and holding her tightly against my chest. She whimpered softly, sensing the sudden spike in my adrenaline.
I looked out the second-story window, staring down at the exact spot where the photographer must have been standing in my garden.
The crushed hydrangeas and deep footprints in the soil confirmed my absolute worst nightmare.
I was not safe. The ten-year prison sentence was supposed to be the end of the game, but Damon was simply changing the rules.
He was using his hidden offshore money—the funds the authorities had not managed to track down—to hire a ghost.
I packed a small overnight bag, grabbed my encrypted laptop, and carried Lily out to the car through the attached garage.
May you like
I was not going to sit around and wait to become a victim again.
I needed a professional, and I needed to go on the offensive.
