Page 50 of Max Bannon

So I pulled back, slowly, forcing the space between us to open again.

Her gaze lingered on mine for a long beat before she whispered, “Good night, Nate.”

I nodded. “Night, Willa.”

She lay down, curled up with the blanket pulled to her chin, and within a few minutes, her breathing had slowed.

I stood, grabbed my laptop, and settled into the chair across the room.

Then I typed his name:Derek Jacob Holloway.

And started digging.

If this guy thought he could sneak onto my mountain, scare her, and walk away clean?

He had no idea who he was messing with. You never come into my home uninvited. If he thought he could sneak onto my mountain, scare her, and walk away clean?

Derek Jacob Holloway.

Age thirty-five. Born in Oregon. Currently listed as living in Spokane, but his last recorded lease ended four months ago, and there was no new address filed. That was the first red flag.

The second? A string of sealed court documents connected to a restraining order filed by an “unidentified female party” just before he started dating Willa.

I leaned forward, fingers flying over the keys.

He wasn’t just a clingy ex with boundary issues.

He was a seasoned manipulator with a pattern—and he’d learned how to stay just inside the lines of legality.

Photos. Disappearing addresses. Loopholes.

He was smart. Careful.Calculated.

But what got my attention wasn’t in the legal database—it was in a backlogged local news article from three years ago. A woman named Jenna McCrae had gone missing after filing a harassment report. She’d dated Holloway for five months. Friends claimed she’d said he was “too intense” and that she’d “tried to cut things off.”

She was never found.

And Derek? Never charged.

I sat back in my chair, heart pounding, the glow of the screen painting my face in cold light.

I looked toward the couch where Willa was curled up, her breathing soft and steady, her braid draped over the pillow like a ribbon of gold.

She had no idea how close she'd come to something worse.

He wasn’t just following her.

He washunting.

And he was getting bolder.

The photo left on my porch wasn’t just a message.

It was a warning.

I see you. I see her. I’m close.

And that meant it was time to stop playing defense.

---