Page 39 of The Maverick

Vanessa felt her stomach twist. “There’s no way they guessed my passwords.”

“Maybe not,” Reed said. “But they could’ve installed a keystroke logger if they got into your house. Or remote access through a script hidden in an email attachment.”

Her mind raced. “A month ago, someone emailed me pretending to be a romance blogger. Offered to do an early spotlight for Sins of the Flame. Asked me to click a link to preview the promo art. I opened it, but nothing loaded.”

“Send me that email. Right now.”

She complied. Reed cursed on the other end. “That link was a phishing trap. The code embedded a remote access tool. He had real-time visibility of anything on your screen.”

Vanessa clutched the edge of the bed, bile rising again.

“I’m running a reverse trace now,” Reed continued. “Someone uploaded the file to a private subdomain routed through your publisher’s site, using a masked author backend login.” This guy’s good. Fake IP, VPN tunneling across three continents. But he made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” Hawke asked, already opening a second laptop.

A prepaid debit card tied to a single-use email paid for the VPN service he used. Which would’ve been fine—except he used that card a second time. For a physical drop box rental outside Boulder. I’m pulling surveillance from the rental kiosk now.”

Vanessa’s eyes snapped to Hawke’s. “He picked up something? Or left something?”

“No idea yet,” Reed replied. “But there’s a security cam mounted inside the kiosk. If he paid in person or accessed the box physically, we’ve got a shot.”

She stood. “I want to see it.”

“Already on it. Scrubbing timestamps from the last thirty days. I’ll send a clip as soon as I have a visual.”

Hawke ended the call and turned to her. “Go pack a bag. Enough for three days. We’re not staying here tonight.”

“What?” Her voice pitched. “You think he’s going to show up?”

“I think he wants you scared and off balance. I’m not giving him that. You pack. I’ll prep the truck.”

Vanessa moved toward the dresser, heart hammering. “Where are we going?”

“The club.” His voice was all steel now. “We have safe rooms there for high-value clients. Very few people know they exist. They don’t even show up on the building plans. He won’t find us there.”

“And if he tries?” she asked.

He walked to her, caught her chin in his hand, and made her look up. “Then I put an end to this. Permanently.”

The words should have chilled her, but they didn’t. Not when spoken by Hawke. Not when his eyes told her he meant every word.

“Move fast,” he said. “We leave in fifteen.”

She didn’t ask questions. She packed.

Because she believed him.

And God help the man who thought he could write her ending for her.

Twenty minutes later, they were on the road. Hawke drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on her thigh. Her laptop was closed and tucked under the seat, her phone set to airplane mode. No GPS. No location history. No digital trail.

The countryside blurred past, dark and silent. Vanessa leaned her head against the window, thoughts spinning.

She wasn’t just scared. She was furious.

This wasn’t about books anymore. It was about power. About control. Someone out there thought they could twist her voice into submission, reframe her stories, and make her body the battleground for their delusions.

The message had been clear:You belong to me.They didn’t know who they were dealing with.

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