Page 46 of Blind Prophet

Did I give up too soon? Should I have stayed?

The vibrations resume, and this time, I remove my phone. Sophia’s name flashes on the screen.

“Hey,” I answer, voice soft, weighted with my heavy thoughts.

“Can you talk?”

“Yes. It’s done. Do you want to check if they’re working? He’s asleep, so if there’s an issue, I can adjust them.”

“He’s asleep? In the afternoon?”

“Migraine. He took Eletriptan.” Based on the contents of his medicine cabinet, he likely took Vicodin earlier in the day. The combination would act like a sedative. “I don’t know how much time we have.”

“Excellent. Have you seen Halston?”

“He and his father live in separate dwellings. I hiked up to Halston’s home earlier today and entered the garage. It’s the main house I showed you on the satellite imagery. Placed trackers in two vehicles and listening devices beneath the front seats, but I don’t know how often, if ever, his father uses those vehicles. The man’s ninety-two. He may never leave the compound. I’ll see if I can convince Dorian to let me say hello to his father before I leave, but I doubt I’ll be left alone inside his father’s home.”

“We’re going to send someone up to retrieve you. If you can get into his father’s house before nightfall, that’s great. Otherwise, let’s get you out of there.”

“I’m not in danger, Sophia. Dorian’s going to fly me into Denver in the morning.” My gaze crosses the lawn to the darkened main house. “There are still things we need to discuss.” It’s a painful admission, but the truth is in black and white, framed behind glass.

“Caroline, we traced the source of the calls to burner phones found near scenes of the attacks to your geographical area. There are no neighboring properties.”

My brain kicks into overdrive, processing the tactical implications. Isolated location. Direct access to global satellite networks. A brilliant but reclusive billionaire with unlimited resources. It’s textbook—exactly the pattern I would have flagged in my CIA days. But the personal photographs, the preserved memories...they don’t fit the profile. Unless...

A cold realization hits me: What better cover than appearing to be a man still pining for his ex-wife? I, of all people, should know, sometimes the most convincing tradecraft is built on genuine emotion.

“The team has reviewed the evidence, and the decision has been made.” Sophia’s voice carries the crisp certainty I remember from agency briefings.

Burner phones mean planned anonymity; geographical correlation suggests either sloppy tradecraft or intentional misdirection. The analyst in me wants to request raw data, verification protocols, and pattern analysis. But there’s no time for that now.

“Dorian Moore is not the man you think he is, and we need to get you out of there.”

The words hit differently when you’re in the field versus behind a desk. Years of analyzing threat assessments, and suddenly, I’m inside one.

CHAPTER11

DORIAN

Gravel scatters across the asphalt drive. A red juice stains my striped shirt, and my too-long jeans drag the ground. The brick building comes into focus—my elementary school. The same prestigious prep school where three generations of Moore men learned to carry the weight of a legacy.

There are no cars in the parking lot. If I go into the building, I can tell them my driver didn’t come. Do I have keys? I want to move, but inertia binds my legs. An old Honda Accord rounds the bend. Recognition dawns.

The horizon brightens.

The window rolls down, and Caroline’s golden hair drapes her arm as she leans across the divide, her smile warm and true, skin flushed, reminiscent of a young Maine summer girl.

She shakes her head. Her lips turn down in disappointment. The vehicle drives away, and I lose sight of the wheels. I reach for her, wanting to run, but I can’t. My legs won’t move.

I struggle until the scene shifts. I blink into darkness. Sweat coats my brow. My breaths come short and fast. My eyesight adjusts, taking in the dark room and the circular blue ceiling light triggered by my movement. Outside, it’s dark.

What time is it? I swipe my hand over my damp brow. Jesus. My fucking childhood dream twisted to include Caroline. How many pills did I take?

Weak, I stumble out of bed and head to the bathroom. The bedside clock shows ten after four a.m. The meds knocked me out.

What did Caroline do? Did she find something to eat for dinner? The house manager stocks the kitchen, but I often eat dinner with Dad up at his house. I assume there was something for her to eat. I’d planned to have the chef cook for us last night.

My limbs are shaky, the weakness noticeable with the slight tremble in my hand while brushing my teeth. I need food. Something to settle my stomach. Caffeine to ward off another headache. After changing into pajama bottoms, a plain T-shirt, and slippers, I head downstairs.

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