Page 8 of Sawyer
“Edgar’s been with the family twenty years, the maids longer. But yes. And check any recent contractors: HVAC, painters, IT.”
“Copy. Anything else?”
I hesitate. “Cam’s resisting lockdown. She’s… spirited.”
Dean chuckles. “And you like spirited.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Sure it isn’t. Stay sharp. Call if you need backup.” He hangs up.
I scrub a hand over my face, push off the bed. Sleep later. Secure now.
0120 hours: The corridor is dark, lit only by wall sconces casting amber pools across Persian rugs. I sweep left to right: thermal monocular up, scanning for heat signatures. Cam’s door glows warm through oak—she’s alive, maybe dreaming of sunsets and rebellion.
I move to the south wing of the library—windows locked. Dining hall—empty. Kitchen—empty.
Past the butler’s pantry, I find a servant stairwell spiraling to the basement. Door is ajar. My pulse spikes. I draw the SIG, thumb the flashlight, and descend silently.
Basement smells of earth and vintage wine. Racks line the walls, shadows deep as coffins. A faint breeze brushes my cheek—not possible in a sealed cellar. I follow it to a narrow service tunnel, brick arching overhead.
There: fresh scuff marks on the dust. Recent. Size eleven boot, non-dress tread. Adrenaline crashes my bloodstream.
The tunnel ends at a steel access hatch. It’s latched from the inside. I crack it open, flashlight slicing darkness. Outside: the rear hedge, thirty yards from the house. A perfect insertion route for someone who knows the layout. But that means whoeverdropped the envelope had interior knowledge and a key—or help.
I secure the hatch, triple knot a length of paracord through the interior lock, and cinch it tight. That hole is plugged.
Back upstairs, I log findings, set extra cameras on the east wing, then stop outside Cam’s door, listening. Soft music filters through—jazz, slow and sultry. I imagine her curled under silk, lashes fanning her pink cheeks, unaware of the storm gathering.
I turn away. Protect, don’t covet.
0345 hours: I’m on the balcony outside my room, the moon lighting up the ocean waves. The night is cool, salt tang on the air. Somewhere inside, an antique clock chimes four. Footsteps approach—bare and light.
I pivot. Cam stands in the doorway of my balcony, robe cinched, braid loose, eyes drowsy. “Couldn’t sleep?” she whispers.
“Patrol.” I nod toward the grounds. “Secured a vulnerability.”
She hugs herself against the chill. “You’re relentless.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She steps closer until the moon outlines her face. She’s luminous. “Thank you,” she says simply.
“For?”
“Caring whether I wake up tomorrow.” Her hand lifts, and brushes the sleeve of my shirt as it lingers. Heat blooms.
“I’d like you to wake up every tomorrow,” I admit.
Silence stretches. Her gaze drifts to my mouth; mine to hers. The world narrows to the silver flecks in her irises, the cinnamon scent of her skin.
I step back. “Go inside, Cam. Get some rest.”
She studies me a beat longer, then nods. “Good night, Sawyer.”
“Night.”
She slips away.
