Page 35 of Blind Prophet

Jesus.

“There. Sent a text confirming she may continue. Although, you may want to look at the footage.”

“Why?” I swing open the door to the main house while keeping an eye on the live SOC feed.

“Because security believes she’s behaving suspiciously. If you don’t care, don’t review it. I don’t know why I bother.”

CHAPTER8

CAROLINE

Shadows blur the details of the roofline. I enlarge the image with my fingers, mentally noting the blind spots in the security coverage—two in particular, where the roof meets the façade. Our imagery enhancement software could clean up these shots, but the resolution might not be sufficient for full structural analysis. I take three more rapid shots at different exposures, a technique I learned during technical surveillance training.

The modern farmhouse aesthetic, expansive windows, and black-stained wood are reminiscent of homes I captured on Pinterest boards years ago. Dorian’s design aesthetic has always matched mine. He likely hired a sought-after, talented designer with a Scandinavian sensibility, hence the reason the interior is breathtaking, with a balanced mix of simplicity and scaled grandeur.

Halston’s massive mountain home is plenty big enough for the two men. Perhaps his father has a new woman in his life, and Dorian desired his own space.

There was a time when it would have been impossible to be unaware of Halston Moore’s relationship status. Any marriage received a press blitz. But like his son, he’s drifted from the limelight. I can’t remember the last time I saw a photograph of him in a newspaper or magazine. At ninety-two, I imagine he’s ripe for the dead or alive celebrity game.

If Halston had remarried, we’d have a file on his wife with a detailed background and connections. Come to think of it, I’m sure Project Unity has a file on me as Dorian’s legal wife.

The crinkling of leaves steals my attention from the eaves of the home. My hand instinctively moves to check my transmitter, disguised as a Cartier bracelet. I scan the woods in a grid pattern, the way we were trained—quadrant by quadrant, identifying and cataloging movement patterns. The sound’s distinct rhythm and weight suggest bipedal, human, rather than animal origin, approximately 100 feet out.

While the compound encompasses over one thousand acres, I’ve stayed within the perimeters of the homes, and the Moores have a full staff. Where is the staff located?

I slip my phone into my jeans’s back pocket and push up my sleeves, prepared to greet the approaching person. Security, perhaps?

It’s definitely a human. Deer and other animals evoke a lighter sound with a more spontaneous pace.

The crinkling grows louder.

“Hello?”

A deer’s head emerges.

We both still. Watching each other.

The female deer with big black orbs munches on her leaf. She decides I’m not a predator and lowers her head and continues foraging. A younger deer with a smaller frame presses further into the woods, giving me little attention.

Deer. I don’t see many of those in Santa Barbara, not where I’ve chosen to live.

I inhale deeply, breathing in the clean air, loaded with hints of earth and cedar.

But that sound? The crinkling of leaves. The snapping stick. It wasn’t the deer. Someone else is in these woods.

Light reflects on the windows of the section of the house Dorian entered, yielding a black, impermeable screen.

Is he watching me from his office?

When I see Dorian, I’ll tell him I love the house. He’ll believe me. When I quit work, studying architecture became a passive hobby.

Of course, he’s probably not watching me. He’s lost in video conference calls and juggling a day packed with meetings of thirty-minute increments. A full hour wastes his time. He can cover more by entering meetings in the last half-hour, a trick he learned long ago from a time management consultant.

Tonight, I’ll explore the extension of the home that holds his office. I’ve already planted three NightHawk minis—the latest gen surveillance tech with adaptive frequency to avoid detection. Kitchen, great room, entryway. But those locations are too public for real intel. Anyone trained in countersurveillance would avoid sensitive conversations there. The office is the target—assuming he hasn’t upgraded to the latest Israeli white noise systems the agency uses.

Perhaps I should place a device in his bedroom. Although the bedroom crosses a line I don’t believe is necessary. When we were together, he kept work out of the bedroom, choosing instead to split his eighteen-hour workdays between his offices.

The memory dredges up loneliness and abandonment, feelings long since smothered with an active life. I close my eyes and face the sun, partially hidden by the trees. When I leave this time, I won’t return. A chapter of my life will close, never to be reread. An unwieldy wound, the source of which healed long ago, resurfaces like an unsightly varicose vein that only surfaces with movement.

---