The first thing I noticed was the way my father said my name.

Not “Max.” Not “son.”

Just: “Fitzpatrick.”

It was 3:00 a.m., and the ring of my phone sounded like a fire alarm in the dark.

I blinked at the screen, my throat already tight. “Dad?”

His breath came in short, controlled bursts. “Are you at the house?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m in bed. What’s going on?”

“Listen. Lock every exterior door. Kill every light. Take Jay to the guest room in back.”

My pulse slammed against my ribs. “You’re scaring me—”

“Do it,” he snapped. “And don’t let your wife know. Not a word.”

I moved before my brain caught up, scooping my son from his bed, carrying his warm weight downstairs. In the guest room, I eased him onto the quilt, then stepped to the window.

Across the yard, under the neighbor’s security floodlight, my wife stood in our bedroom in black tactical gear, a suppressed pistol held like she’d been born with it.

I didn’t breathe.

And then she turned toward the hallway—toward my son.

The night didn’t just change.

It revealed what it had been all along.

—

Before that call, I would’ve told you I’d earned my peace.

I’d done my time in places where the air smelled like diesel and dust, where the difference between “safe” and “dead” was often a sound you didn’t hear. I’d walked away from Army intelligence at thirty-five with the kind of quiet exhaustion you can’t explain to people who’ve never had to count exits.

Then I became an architect.

Most folks think architecture is about taste—clean lines, glass walls, a fancy word to justify a price tag. For me it was about control. It was about taking something damaged and making it stand again. Adaptive reuse, they called it: old banks turned into tech hubs, abandoned warehouses turned into apartment lofts, churches turned into community centers.

You find the load-bearing parts. You respect what’s still solid. And you build around the fractures.

That morning—two days before everything detonated—Jay sat at the breakfast table in our Alexandria kitchen building a tower out of wooden blocks. He was eight and already smarter than he should’ve been. His hands moved with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted the world would hold.

My wife, Kirsten, poured coffee with her usual effortless grace. Auburn hair pulled back, robe tied at the waist, a smile that could convince a roomful of donors to write checks.

“Dad,” Jay said without looking up, “can buildings remember things?”

I set my phone beside my plate and leaned on my elbows. “What makes you ask that?”

He pushed a block into place like he was sealing a deal. “You say they talk to you. Like… you listen to them.”

I smiled, the real kind. “They do. Every beam and crack has a story. You just have to pay attention.”

Kirsten slid my mug toward me, her fingers brushing my shoulder. “You two and your morning philosophy,” she said, amused.

And there it was—our life, tidy and warm. The kitchen smelled like toast and coffee. The radio played low, some local station talking about traffic on the Beltway.

If you’d stood outside, you would’ve seen a family that made sense.

That’s what made it so brutal later: how convincingly it had all made sense.

I watched Jay add a block, then another, widening the base the way I’d taught him. “If you build too high without support,” I told him, “it’ll fall.”

Jay nodded solemnly like I’d handed him a law of physics.

Kirsten kissed the top of his head. “And we can’t have that,” she said.

Her smile was perfect.

I didn’t notice my own hinge tightening until my phone buzzed.

A text.

Lucas Hunt: Drink soon. Been too long, brother.

Lucas was an old friend from my Army intel days, the kind you could go years without seeing and still pick up mid-sentence. We’d both taken the exit ramp out of that world, at least in public.

Kirsten glanced at my phone like it was nothing. “Work?”

“Just Lucas,” I said. “He wants to catch up.”

Something flickered across her face—fast as a shadow under a door.

“You should,” she said lightly. “You never see your old friends anymore.”

I told myself I imagined it.

I was wrong.

That’s the thing about peace: you don’t realize how much you’re trusting it until it breaks.

—

My office sat in Alexandria near the river, the kind of renovated brick building my firm specialized in. Fitzpatrick Studio. Sleek sign, glass conference room, a coffee machine my junior associates treated like a shrine.

Our biggest project at the time was converting a 1920s bank into a tech hub. It was the kind of work I loved—preserve the stone façade, keep the brass teller windows as a nod to history, turn the old vault into a conference room with modern lighting and a hidden ventilation system.

Balance. Respect. Transformation.

On my commute, I watched the sunrise smear orange across the Potomac and tried not to think about the text from Lucas. Not because it worried me—because it shouldn’t have mattered.

I’d built a life where the past had no access codes.

Around ten thirty, my phone rang.

Dad.

My father, Greg Blevens, had spent three decades with the CIA and somehow managed to make even a “hello” sound like it had a classification level. He didn’t call to chat. He didn’t call for fun.

I stepped into my office and closed the door. “Dad. I’m in a meeting block. What’s up?”

“How’s Jay?” he asked.

It was such a normal question it landed wrong.

“Good,” I said carefully. “Why?”

A pause. A small click on his end like a keyboard. “Just checking.”

“Dad.”

“Watch out for each other,” he said.

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone until the screen went dark.

Greg Blevens didn’t waste words.

If he called to “check,” it meant something had already moved.

That was the moment the old instincts—the ones I’d buried under design reviews and HOA meetings—sat up and started listening.

The rest of the day looked ordinary on paper.

A client meeting. A site walk-through. A debate about whether to keep original marble in the bank lobby or replace it with something “more contemporary.”

But my attention snagged on odd details.

Bridger “Brick” Choa, one of my associates, asked what time I’d be home that night. He’d never cared before.

At lunch, through the glass of the café, I caught Suzanne Barry—Kirsten’s closest friend—standing across the street like she was waiting for someone. She wasn’t on her phone. She wasn’t window-shopping. She was watching.

When I waved, she smiled and lifted a hand like we were in on a joke.

I smiled back because that’s what you do when you’re trying to pretend your life is still yours.

By the time I picked Jay up from soccer practice that evening, I was scanning the parking lot like it was a checkpoint.

Jay ran to the car with grass stains on his knees and a grin on his face. “Dad! Coach says I’m getting faster.”

“You are,” I told him, ruffling his hair. “You’re going to outrun me soon.”

He laughed like the idea was ridiculous.

I couldn’t stop thinking about my father’s voice.

Watch out for each other.

The sentence sat in my skull like a weight.

That night Kirsten made lasagna—Jay’s favorite—and the house smelled like tomatoes and oregano and the kind of comfort I wanted to believe in.

Jay told us a story about one of his teammates trying a bicycle trick and wiping out in front of everyone. Kirsten laughed in the exact right place, hand over her mouth, eyes bright.

Normal.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

After Jay went to bed, I sat in my study with blueprints spread out like camouflage. On the surface I was working.

Underneath, I was running patterns.

Kirsten had been different lately. More private with her phone. Calls taken on the back porch. Questions about my father’s visit last month that felt too pointed.

I watched her move around the kitchen, cleaning with efficient calm.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You should call Lucas,” she said, too casual. “Catch up. Might be good for you.”

I met her eyes.

She held my gaze like she had nothing to hide.

My stomach tightened anyway.

Because in my old life, the people who told you to call someone were usually the people who wanted to know what you’d say.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being guided.

Like a hallway with doors I didn’t know were locked.

Then, at 3:00 a.m., my phone detonated in the darkness.

—

The call from my father didn’t feel like a warning.

It felt like an extraction.

I whispered into the phone, “Dad?” and he didn’t answer with warmth or panic—just commands.

“Lock the doors. All of them. Lights off. Now. Back guest room. Take Jay. Quiet.”

My throat went dry. “What is happening?”

“Move,” he said. “And don’t tell Kirsten.”

I hung up without saying goodbye.

Training takes over in moments like that. It isn’t heroic. It’s automatic.

I slid out of bed and padded down the hallway, stepping over the place where the third floorboard squeaked. Our house had this one little betrayal: one step that always complained. I’d learned it by heart.

Jay’s door was half-open. His nightlight glowed soft against the wall, making his room look like a snow globe.

I lifted him carefully.

He stirred, eyelids fluttering. “Dad?”

“Hey,” I murmured. “We’re going to play a quiet game, okay?”

His face pressed into my shoulder, warm and heavy with sleep. He nodded without understanding.

I took him downstairs, the air cooler on the first floor. The house felt wrong—too quiet, like it was holding its breath.

In the back guest room, I set him on the bed and pulled the quilt up.

“Stay right there,” I whispered. “No talking. No getting up.”

His eyes opened wider. “Why?”

“Secret agent rules,” I said, forcing a smile.

He swallowed hard and nodded.

I moved to the window.

The neighbor’s security light threw a harsh cone across our yard. From there I could see straight into the master bedroom window.

And there she was.

Kirsten.

Not in pajamas. Not in the soft sweater she wore to bed.

In black tactical clothing that fit her like a second skin.

She held a pistol with a suppressor, her grip steady, her shoulders squared like she’d done it a thousand times.

She swept the room in a controlled arc, eyes scanning with professional focus. She touched her ear, the faint gleam of an earpiece visible.

She wasn’t looking for me like a worried wife.

She was clearing.

My phone buzzed in my palm.

A text from my father: Three outside. Two vehicles. Foreign team. Your wife is the planted asset. Ten-year cover. Target was me. You and Jay are liabilities. Stay hidden. Help inbound.

Ten-year cover.

My marriage.

Jay’s entire life.

The math clicked with a sick finality.

A sound came from the hallway—soft footfalls above, the kind you didn’t hear unless you knew what to listen for.

Kirsten was moving.

Toward Jay.

Toward the guest room.

I pressed my son’s face into my chest and covered his mouth gently with my hand.

His eyes went wide.

“Remember the game,” I breathed against his hair. “This is the real version. You have to be still.”

He nodded once, tiny and brave.

Outside, from somewhere near the fence line, I heard voices—low, clipped.

“Check the back. They’re here.”

Kirsten’s voice.

The same voice that had said I love you.

The same voice that had read Jay bedtime stories.

My father’s words rang in my head: foreign team.

This wasn’t a domestic fight.

This was an operation.

I looked at the window latch.

The guest room had one door, and the door was a trap.

The window was my only exit.

My phone buzzed again.

Vehicle inbound. White van. Northeast corner. Run on my mark.

My father didn’t say “be careful.”

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.”

He treated my life like a mission, because that was the only language he had.

I eased the window up.

Cold air spilled in, smelling like wet grass.

Jay made a small sound—more breath than noise.

Footsteps approached the guest room door.

A shadow paused outside.

My hands shook, but my voice stayed steady. “On three,” I whispered to Jay. “We go fast.”

He nodded.

Then the house behind us creaked.

And I knew we were out of time.

—

I didn’t wait for the door to open.

I pushed Jay through the window first, guiding him down into the yard. My knees hit the damp grass as I followed, and for one split second I felt ridiculous—an adult man climbing out of his own guest room like a teenager sneaking out.

Then a shout cut through the quiet.

“There!”

I grabbed Jay’s wrist and sprinted for the back fence.

The world narrowed to sound and breath.

Jay’s bare feet slapped the grass. My lungs burned.

Behind us, the back door banged open.

A flash of light—someone sweeping a flashlight across the yard.

A muffled pop.

Not loud like a movie gunshot.

Worse.

Controlled.

I hauled Jay over the fence, his small body lighter than my terror, and we crashed into the neighbor’s yard. Their sprinkler system hissed softly like it was mocking me.

A van rolled around the corner with its headlights off.

The side door slid open.

A man leaned out, face lit by a faint interior glow.

Lucas Hunt.

“Move!” he barked.

I shoved Jay inside and dove after him.

The door slammed.

Lucas punched the gas.

A crack hit the van’s back window, spiderwebbing the glass.

Jay let out a strangled cry.

I pulled him into my chest so hard I felt his heart racing against mine.

“Dad?” he whispered.

“I’ve got you,” I said. I didn’t know if it was true. I needed it to be.

Lucas took corners like he was cutting through a maze he’d memorized. “Your father called me an hour ago,” he said over his shoulder. “Gave me the short version, which in Greg-speak means the long version is terrifying.”

I swallowed. “He said foreign team.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

Jay looked up, eyes huge. “Is… Mom…?”

My throat closed.

Lucas glanced in the rearview mirror, his expression softening for half a second. “Buddy,” he said gently, “your mom is… mixed up in something bad.”

I couldn’t let my son live in half-truths. Not this.

“She’s dangerous,” I said quietly. “And we’re going to keep you safe.”

Jay stared at me like he didn’t recognize my voice.

I didn’t recognize it either.

We drove into Arlington and pulled into a row of identical townhouses—nothing flashy, nothing memorable.

A safe house.

Lucas guided us inside, locking the door behind us.

The living room smelled like stale coffee and unopened boxes.

On the wall, a framed print of a beach scene that screamed “generic rental.”

Lucas handed me a phone. “Your dad’s on.”

I pressed accept.

My father’s face filled the screen, lit by a harsh desk lamp. He looked older than he had two days ago. His eyes were bloodshot. His expression was carved out of regret and urgency.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The words hit me harder than any gunshot.

“How?” I choked out. “How did you not know?”

He flinched like I’d slapped him. “We vetted her. Her legend was airtight. A real identity with a real history. They’ve been building her cover since she was a teenager.”

“Ten years,” I said. My voice came out flat, dead.

He nodded once. “Tonight was termination. You and Jay served your purpose. They were extracting her and erasing loose ends.”

Jay curled into the couch, clutching a pillow like it could protect him.

I looked at my son—my boy who still believed in superhero movies and snack-time fairness—and something in me shifted.

“What now?” I asked.

My father’s mouth tightened, and for the first time I saw the predator behind the dad. “Now we make them regret touching my family,” he said. “But listen to me, Max. This runs deeper than your wife. She had support. Handlers. Infrastructure. And some of them might be people you know.”

Brick. Suzanne.

My mind flashed with faces at birthday parties, at work events, at our dinner table.

I wanted to throw up.

“I want everything,” I said. “Names. Photos. Locations. Everything you have.”

“You’re not an operator anymore,” he warned.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. “No,” I said. “I’m worse. I’m a father who almost watched his son get hunted in his own house.”

My father went still.

Then he nodded once, slow. “Lucas will coordinate,” he said. “I’m sending you everything. But understand: if you go outside the law, you’re on your own.”

I didn’t blink. “Good.”

Because in that moment, the part of me that cared about clean lines and approvals and proper procedure…

…quietly died.

And something colder took its place.

—

The safe house dining table became my war room.

Lucas brought coffee and spread printed photos across the wood like we were back in a briefing tent overseas. Jay slept upstairs in a borrowed room, exhausted from terror. I kept my voice low, but my thoughts roared.

Lucas tapped a photo of a man in a suit stepping out of a black car. “Anton Romero,” he said. “Handler. Diplomatic cover out of New York. Runs her.”

Another photo: Suzanne Barry smiling at my son’s birthday party, frosting on her finger.

Lucas’s voice dropped. “That’s not Suzanne Barry. That’s Svetlana Borisova. Logistics. Local coordinator.”

My stomach turned.

He slid over another picture.

Brick, my associate, in the office hallway holding a roll of blueprints.

I clenched my fist. “He had my schedule.”

“And access to your projects,” Lucas said. “Your firm’s done work on government-adjacent buildings. Security layouts. Entry points. Everything you thought was just design? They turned it into a map.”

I stared at the photos until the edges blurred.

My work—my careful, thoughtful work—had been used like a weapon.

“What are they doing now?” I asked.

Lucas leaned back, rubbing his face. “Scrambling. Romero’s trying to get out. Once the extraction happens, they’ll clean up. Everyone who can be traced to the operation will vanish—or be removed.”

Jay’s face flashed in my mind.

Removed.

I stood and walked to the kitchen window, staring at a row of ordinary houses. Kids’ bikes on sidewalks. Porch lights still on. People sleeping, thinking the night was just the night.

“They have load-bearing points,” I said quietly.

Lucas frowned. “What?”

“Networks,” I said. “They’re like buildings. You don’t need to knock down every brick. You pull the right support and the whole structure collapses.”

Lucas studied me for a long moment. “I forgot how your brain works,” he said.

“Good,” I answered. “Because I’m about to use it for something ugly.”

We started with surveillance.

I called Horatio Brown, a private investigator I’d used before for contractor background checks. Horatio sounded like he was smiling when he answered.

“Max Fitzpatrick,” he said. “You don’t call at dawn unless somebody’s in trouble.”

“I need eyes on three people,” I said. “Fast.”

“How fast?”

“Today.”

A pause. Then, delighted: “Now we’re speaking the same language.”

By midmorning, Horatio had teams watching Brick’s apartment, Romero’s Georgetown residence, and two addresses Lucas identified as likely safe houses.

We set up a bank of screens in the safe house living room. Feeds flickered: cars, doorways, sidewalks.

My hands shook around a coffee mug.

Not from caffeine.

From the realization that my entire life had been observed for years without me noticing.

Jay came downstairs around seven, hair sticking up, eyes swollen from sleep.

He sat at the table and stared at the blocks Lucas had found in a closet upstairs—cheap plastic ones, nothing like the wooden set at home.

Jay began building a tower anyway.

Block by block.

Like he could stack something steady over the chaos.

“Can we go home today?” he asked quietly.

I knelt beside him. “Not yet, buddy.”

He nodded, mouth tight. “Is Mom going to find us?”

“No,” I said. “Not if I can help it.”

Jay placed another block, hands trembling slightly. “Are you going to stop her?”

I looked at him, and a promise formed like concrete.

“Yes,” I said. “I swear.”

The word swear wasn’t for drama.

It was a contract with my own soul.

A phone buzz interrupted.

Horatio: Romero’s moving.

Lucas leaned over the feed. “Convoy,” he said. “Two cars.”

I watched the camera image of Romero stepping out with two men. They moved like they knew how to move.

“Where’s he headed?” I asked.

Horatio’s voice came through the speaker. “Looks like he’s making for an airfield. Private.”

Private meant no TSA line, no public cameras, no paper trail.

Lucas exhaled sharply. “If he gets airborne, we lose him.”

I opened a map on my laptop and stared at the route from Georgetown to the private strip outside the city.

Seventeen side roads.

Three construction zones.

Two stretches of road where the streetlights were always out.

I didn’t need to touch a diplomat to change his future.

I just needed the structure to fail.

Lucas watched my face. “Max,” he warned.

“I’m not killing anyone,” I said.

And I meant it.

But I was done being the person other people could use.

Because when your son almost dies at 3:00 a.m., morality starts sounding like something rich people debate over wine.

—

Later that afternoon, local news called it a tragic accident.

A vehicle lost control on a curve. An unexpected obstruction. A chain of bad decisions and worse luck.

Anton Romero survived.

Barely.

He didn’t die.

He just lost the part of his life where he got to stand tall and untouchable.

Lucas watched the report in silence, jaw clenched. “You understand,” he said carefully, “this is—”

“Physics,” I interrupted.

He stared at me.

I stared back.

In my head I saw my wife’s gun under the floodlight.

Physics had rules.

So did betrayal.

The next support point was Brick.

Horatio’s surveillance showed him pacing his apartment, making frantic calls, sweating through his shirt.

Brick wasn’t trained like Kirsten.

Brick was a recruited asset. A man who’d been told he was clever enough to play a dangerous game.

Men like that always broke the same way.

They didn’t break from pressure.

They broke from the thought of being left behind.

Lucas waited in the car while I went in.

I didn’t bring a weapon.

I brought a laptop.

Brick’s cheap deadbolt gave after a few careful seconds.

Inside, Brick sat at his kitchen table with his head in his hands like a man praying.

He looked up.

Fear hit his face so hard it was almost comical.

“Max,” he stammered. “I—”

“Don’t,” I said.

I set the laptop down on the table and opened it.

On the screen were files—blueprints, schedules, emails.

Everything he’d copied.

And something else.

Evidence.

The kind that made men beg.

“You sold my work,” I said calmly. “You sold my family’s life.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he whispered. “They said it was just… information. Industrial. They never said—”

“They tried to kill my son,” I said.

Brick swallowed. His throat bobbed like he couldn’t find air.

I leaned closer. “Here’s your problem,” I said. “Your people think you’ve been skimming money. I have proof.”

His eyes snapped to the screen.

Transfers. Offshore accounts. Messages.

Some of it real.

Some of it… carefully constructed.

“That’s not mine,” he rasped.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Matters what they believe.”

He started shaking.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Everything,” I said. “Every contact. Every meeting. Every dead drop. Every protocol.”

“If I talk,” he said, voice cracking, “they’ll kill me.”

“If you don’t,” I said softly, “I’ll make sure they think you talked to the FBI.”

Brick stared at me, helpless.

The thing about coercion is it doesn’t require violence.

It only requires a future you can ruin.

He talked.

For two hours.

Names I recognized from dinner parties.

Faces I’d seen at industry mixers.

A network woven into my city like rot in a wall.

When he was done, Brick sat slumped, eyes dead.

I slid a piece of paper across the table.

Four words.

Run. Don’t look back.

“You have a head start,” I said. “Use it.”

Brick stumbled to his feet like a man exiting a burning building.

Back in the car, Lucas listened to the recording and exhaled. “This is bigger than we thought.”

“It always is,” I said.

Lucas rubbed his forehead. “We should hand this to the FBI. Let them do it clean.”

I stared out at passing neighborhoods. “Clean doesn’t protect Jay,” I said.

Lucas’s eyes hardened. “Max, you’re walking a line.”

“I know,” I said.

The line wasn’t new.

I’d just hoped I’d never have to see it again.

And then Horatio called.

“Suzanne’s moving,” he said. “Fast.”

My mouth went dry.

Because if Suzanne ran, it meant Kirsten had already decided what to do next.

And I had no idea where she was.

Not yet.

—

By dusk, we were reading messages we weren’t supposed to see.

Horatio had a friend—someone who owed him—who could coax open encrypted chatter without me asking how. I didn’t want the method. I wanted the pattern.

On my screen, the network sounded panicked.

Who’s compromised?

Where’s Romero?

Is Fairfax still clean?

Then I sent one message.

Using Romero’s credentials.

Protocol Omega. Eliminate local assets. No witnesses.

Protocol Omega didn’t exist.

But fear doesn’t ask for verification.

Within minutes, their conversations turned acidic.

Accusations.

Demands.

Operatives doubting each other.

A structure under stress.

Lucas watched in grim fascination. “You’re making them eat each other.”

“They trained a woman to live in my bed for ten years,” I said. “Let them choke.”

Suzanne’s car showed up on a traffic camera headed toward Maryland.

“Where’s she going?” Lucas asked.

I pulled up Brick’s notes. “A safe house outside Baltimore,” I said. “Remote.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “She’s trying to disappear until Moscow can scoop her.”

“She won’t,” I said.

We didn’t chase her like action heroes.

We followed the rules of my world.

We used maps, timing, and predictability.

Suzanne’s car broke down on a stretch of road where her phone had no signal.

When we pulled up in the black SUV, she looked relieved—until she saw me.

Her face changed.

The mask slipped.

“Max,” she said cautiously. “Thank God. I didn’t know—”

“Save it,” I said.

She took a step back. “You don’t understand what you’re involved in.”

I smiled without humor. “I’m pretty sure I understand exactly what I’m involved in.”

She turned and ran.

Lucas cut her off from behind.

She froze between us, breath ragged, eyes darting.

The road was empty.

The sky low and gray.

No witnesses.

No cameras.

I held up a tablet.

On the screen: bank records. Names. Accounts.

Money.

Her money.

“You’ve been skimming,” I said. “Half a million.”

Her mouth opened in disbelief. “That’s—”

“Whether it’s true isn’t the point,” I said. “Your people don’t know. And they won’t forgive.”

She stared at the screen like it was a death sentence.

“You want me to betray my country,” she whispered.

“You already betrayed mine,” I said.

Her eyes filled with something—rage, fear, humiliation.

I leaned closer. “Here’s what happens next,” I said. “You talk to federal agents. You give them everything. And you do it fast. Or I send this to the people who’ll make sure you never sleep again.”

Suzanne’s shoulders trembled.

In that moment, she wasn’t an operative.

She was a human being facing the consequences of her own greed.

She chose survival.

By midnight she was in FBI custody.

Agents moved quickly after that—raids, arrests, search warrants, the kind of machinery that takes months when it’s just paperwork and hours when it’s national security.

But there was one problem.

The one person I needed most.

Kirsten.

She vanished after the failed hit.

No phone.

No credit card.

No social media ping.

A ghost.

And ghosts don’t get caught unless you invite them to haunt you.

So I went home.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I had to.

I wired the house with cameras and motion sensors the FBI pretended not to know about. Lucas waited two blocks away.

Jay was already gone—my father had moved him to a secure location I wasn’t allowed to know.

The emptiness of the house hurt worse than the fear.

Jay’s shoes by the door.

His half-finished block tower on the dining table.

I touched it like it was a relic.

At 11:43 p.m., the back door lock clicked.

Soft.

Professional.

My cameras caught her slipping inside like a shadow.

Kirsten moved through the kitchen with a suppressed handgun and the stillness of someone who had never belonged to this life.

I sat in the living room, visible, hands empty.

On the coffee table lay divorce papers and a laptop.

She stopped in the doorway.

Even then, she was beautiful.

Composed.

Cold.

“Hello, Max,” she said.

Her voice was the same.

That was the worst part.

Because my heart still recognized it.

And it hated itself for that.

—

“Kadia Volkov,” I said.

Her expression didn’t change. “Does it matter what name you use?”

“It matters to me,” I said. “I’d like to speak to the real person before I watch the mask come off forever.”

She stepped into the room, gun angled down but ready. “You’re not armed,” she observed.

“Not like you,” I said.

Her gaze flicked to the laptop. “You have information. You stole our communication channel.”

“Our,” I repeated, and the word tasted like poison.

She tightened her grip. “This didn’t have to be this way.”

I laughed once—short, bitter. “You were going to shoot our son.”

A flicker crossed her face. Regret? Annoyance? Something unreadable.

“He wasn’t part of the mission,” she said.

“He was collateral,” I said.

Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”

There it was.

The honesty, finally.

It hit like a slap.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” she said. “I delayed. I suggested extraction instead. I thought I could disappear and you’d never know.”

“Lucky for me I have a father who doesn’t sleep,” I said.

Her eyes sharpened. “Sign the papers. Give me the laptop. I walk away, you live, Jay lives. I can override the termination order. I can make it stop.”

I studied her.

Ten years of dinners.

Ten years of smiles.

Ten years of her hand on my shoulder.

A decade of a story written around a lie.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

Her gun lifted a fraction. “Then I take it.”

I lifted my chin toward the windows.

Red laser dots appeared on her chest.

One.

Two.

Three.

She froze.

I didn’t move.

“You’re bluffing,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I’m designing your capture. I’ve been building it since 3:00 a.m. the night you decided my family was disposable.”

Her breath hitched.

In the silence, I heard sirens in the distance.

Faint.

Approaching.

“You think prison scares me?” she whispered.

“I think losing scares you,” I said. “And right now, staying alive is your only win.”

Her hand trembled.

The first human crack.

Then slowly, she lowered the gun.

The front door exploded inward.

FBI agents flooded the room, weapons raised.

“Kadia Volkov!” someone shouted. “Hands!”

She didn’t resist.

They cuffed her, hauled her up, pulled her toward the door.

As she passed me, she turned her head. “I did love you,” she said quietly. “Some part of me did.”

I stared at her, feeling nothing but exhaustion. “Love without truth is just another weapon,” I said.

Her eyes flickered.

Then she was gone.

I stood alone in the living room, surrounded by empty spaces where a family used to be.

My phone rang.

My father.

“It’s done,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “One more thing.”

And the floor shifted again.

—

My father’s video feed showed him in a sterile conference room, the kind with bad coffee and good secrets.

“We’re analyzing what Suzanne gave,” he said. “The network was larger. Some assets got out.”

“Out where?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We’ll catch them. But there’s another piece—someone we didn’t see.”

My stomach dropped. “Who?”

“A financier,” he said. “American. No foreign ties we can prove. He’s been laundering money for the operation, providing cover. Name: Willard Schaefer.”

The name hit like recognition in a crowd.

I’d met Schaefer twice at industry events. A DC businessman with silver hair and a handshake that felt like practiced sincerity. Real estate holdings everywhere.

“Why would he do it?” I asked.

“Greed,” my father said. “He profits from insider intel, uses operatives as leverage. And he helped fund the attempt on your son.”

My hands curled into fists. “Where is he?”

“In his office in Georgetown,” my father said. “Probably shredding and arranging a flight. FBI can’t get a warrant for hours.”

Lucas, standing behind me, murmured, “This is different.”

It was.

Schaefer wasn’t a foreign ghost.

He was a citizen with lawyers.

Connections.

A life built on respectable surfaces.

My father’s tone sharpened. “Max, if you do something illegal—”

“I’m going to talk,” I said.

Lucas grabbed his keys.

We drove into Georgetown under a low winter sky, the city looking elegant and indifferent.

Schaefer’s high-rise office sat above the Potomac like it owned the view.

The lobby smelled like expensive cologne and polished marble.

We rode the elevator in silence.

On the top floor, the receptionist was packing boxes.

She glanced up, eyes tired. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Schaefer,” I said.

She hesitated, then pointed toward the corner office like she didn’t care anymore.

The door was open.

Inside, Willard Schaefer sat behind a desk feeding documents into a shredder.

He looked up, calm as a man who believed the world couldn’t touch him.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he said. “I wondered when you’d come.”

“You funded the people who tried to kill my son,” I said.

He smiled faintly. “I funded a business relationship. What my partners chose to do was their concern.”

“You knew,” I said.

He leaned back. “Prove it.”

The shredder hummed.

He looked almost bored.

“I have excellent attorneys,” he continued. “And no direct ties to any intelligence service. By tomorrow I’ll be somewhere that doesn’t return phone calls from Washington.”

I walked to the window and stared down at the city.

Then I turned and held up my phone.

On the screen were records.

Not guesses.

Not forged.

Real.

Shell companies.

Transfers.

Debts.

His face tightened for the first time.

“How did you get that?” he asked.

“I’m an architect,” I said. “I follow structures.”

He swallowed.

I tapped the screen. “You owe forty-seven million to people who don’t accept delays,” I said. “They’re going to learn their money paid for a failed operation. They’re going to want repayment.”

His hands trembled.

“You’re threatening me,” he whispered.

“I’m offering you choices,” I said. “I send this to federal agents and you never leave. And I send it to your creditors and you never sleep. Or you walk into the FBI and cooperate. Protective custody. A prison cell. A life where you get to breathe.”

He stared at me like he’d never been told no before.

“You’re condemning me either way,” he said.

I stepped closer. “You condemned yourself the moment you funded a plot against an eight-year-old boy,” I said.

I didn’t raise my voice.

I didn’t need to.

Because his world was collapsing in silence.

I left.

Fifteen minutes later, my father texted: Schaefer walked into HQ. Asked for protection.

Lucas exhaled slowly. “You didn’t touch him,” he said.

“No,” I said.

I looked at my reflection in the elevator mirror.

I didn’t recognize the man staring back.

But I recognized his purpose.

And it scared me.

—

When I finally saw Jay again, he ran into me so hard it knocked the air out of my lungs.

My father’s “secure location” was a bland rental house in a quiet neighborhood somewhere I couldn’t place. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

Jay clung to my jacket, shaking.

“Is it over?” he whispered.

“Almost,” I said, and hated that the word almost still existed.

That night, in the guest room of the secure house, Jay insisted on building a block tower.

Greg had found a small wooden set in a closet—simple cubes, worn edges.

Jay stacked them carefully, tongue between his teeth.

I sat beside him, watching his hands.

“Buildings remember,” he said softly.

My throat tightened. “Yeah,” I whispered. “They do.”

He placed one last block and leaned back.

The tower stood.

For a moment, so did we.

Six months later, I sat in a federal courtroom in Alexandria, listening to my wife’s real name spoken like an indictment.

Kadia Volkov.

Also known as Kirsten Dean Fitzpatrick.

The prosecutor listed charges that sounded like a language from another universe: conspiracy, espionage, attempted murder, identity fraud, unregistered foreign agent.

Kadia sat at the defense table in prison orange, hair pulled back, face thinner but still composed.

She didn’t look at me.

Jay sat beside Lucas in the front row, small hands folded tight.

I’d debated bringing him.

Therapists warned about trauma.

But Jay had looked at me and said, “I need to see it’s real.”

So he sat there, watching the truth become official.

My father testified about national security, compromised systems, agents put at risk.

Lucas spoke about the night of the van.

Then it was my turn.

I took the stand and stared at the jury.

“My son wakes up screaming,” I said. “He asks if his mother is coming back to hurt him. He’s eight years old. He should be worried about spelling tests, not whether his life was ever real.”

A murmur moved through the courtroom.

Kadia’s jaw tightened.

I forced myself to look at her. “You could have been his mother,” I said. “You could have been real. But you chose a mission.”

She finally lifted her eyes.

For a heartbeat, something passed between us.

Grief.

Regret.

Or maybe just calculation.

The jury deliberated three hours.

Guilty.

All counts.

Sentencing came two weeks later.

The judge’s voice was cold, steady. “You infiltrated this country, exploited a family, and planned violence against a child,” she said. “I see no reason for mercy.”

Life without parole.

Plus sixty years.

Kadia’s face cracked.

Guards led her away.

She glanced back once.

I didn’t move.

Because closure isn’t a door you walk through.

It’s something you build.

And even then, it never seals completely.

—

I sold the house in Alexandria.

Some people told me it was a shame. Great neighborhood. Great schools. Good investment.

They didn’t know about the floodlight outside the guest room window.

They didn’t know about the third stair that squeaked.

They didn’t know what it felt like to stand in your own bedroom and wonder how many nights you’d slept beside a loaded weapon.

Jay and I moved to a smaller place in Arlington, closer to a school that specialized in kids who’d been through too much.

Therapy became routine.

So did nightmares.

Some nights Jay woke up sweating, whispering, “Is she here?”

Some nights I woke up at exactly 3:00 a.m. with my heart racing, checking windows like a man trapped in an old reflex.

We learned to breathe through it.

Lucas showed up every weekend like he’d been appointed by some informal court.

He brought pizza, helped with homework, taught Jay how to throw a football.

My father visited when he could, always a little stiff around the edges, as if affection required clearance.

One afternoon, Jay asked him, “Grandpa, do you ever sleep?”

Greg actually laughed. “Not much,” he admitted.

Jay nodded like that explained everything.

I threw myself into architecture again, but differently.

I partnered with agents and advocates to redesign safe houses and protection spaces—places where families could hide without feeling like prisoners.

It was still adaptive reuse.

Just… human.

And slowly, as I built rooms meant to hold broken people gently, I found myself held too.

Two years after the call, I stood outside a new community center in DC—glass and warm wood, sunlit corridors, a lobby designed to feel open instead of watched.

I’d donated the design.

At the opening, Greg stood beside me, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the crowd out of habit.

“You did good,” he said.

“We did,” I corrected.

Inside, Jay ran up, now ten, taller, steadier. “Dad,” he said, breathless. “Lucas is here. He brought pizza.”

“Of course he did,” I said, laughing, and it startled me how natural it sounded.

Jay tugged my hand and pulled me into the lobby.

In the corner, a kids’ play area had a set of wooden blocks.

Jay started building.

A tower.

Wide base.

Careful supports.

He looked up at me. “This one won’t fall,” he declared.

My throat tightened. “No,” I said. “It won’t.”

Later, as the sun dipped and guests drifted out, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

One line:

I’m sorry.

I deleted it without replying.

Not because the apology meant nothing.

Because it meant something too late.

As Jay and I walked to the car, he looked up and asked, “Are we safe now?”

I thought of all the work still unfinished, all the shadows that always exist around bright places.

Then I squeezed his hand.

“We’re together,” I said. “That’s how we stay safe.”

And for the first time since 3:00 a.m. changed everything, I believed it just enough to keep walking.

But the night has a long memory, and sometimes it still calls my name.

Two years after my father’s 3:00 a.m. call, Jay and I had rebuilt a life that looked ordinary from the sidewalk. I deleted Kadia’s apology and told myself the past was finally done calling.

I was wrong in the quietest way.

The first week after the community center opened, I kept catching myself listening for sounds that didn’t belong—an extra car idling, a door that clicked too softly, the faint scrape of a lock that wasn’t mine.

It wasn’t paranoia, I told my therapist.

It was habit.

“Habit still hurts,” she replied, folding her hands like she was building something careful. “You’re allowed to live without scanning.”

I nodded like I understood. I wanted to understand.

But some nights, my body still woke on its own, hovering on the edge of 3:00 a.m. as if the number was tattooed into my nervous system.

Jay did better than I did.

He’d stopped sleeping with the hallway light on. He didn’t flinch when the doorbell rang. He laughed without checking the windows.

It made me proud.

It made me terrified.

Because the moment you let your guard down is the moment the world reminds you why you raised it.

—

Agent Rosha called on a Tuesday, late afternoon, when I was standing over Jay’s homework like I could hold fractions together by staring hard enough.

Unknown number.

Jay glanced up. “Is it work?”

“Probably,” I said, and tried to sound casual.

I stepped into the kitchen and answered. “Max Fitzpatrick.”

A woman’s voice, steady and clean. “Mr. Fitzpatrick. Special Agent Rose Rosha, FBI Counterintelligence.”

My throat tightened on instinct. “How did you get this number?”

“We have ways,” she said, not joking, then softened. “I’m calling because we have a situation and we think you can help.”

I watched Jay through the doorway. He’d gone back to his worksheet, tongue at the corner of his mouth the way he always did when he was concentrating.

“What kind of situation?” I asked.

“The kind where a family is about to get torn apart by something they can’t see,” she said. “And the pattern looks… familiar.”

The skin along my arms prickled.

“We’re already handling it,” she continued. “But your background—Army intelligence, your role in the Volkov case, and your analytical approach—makes you uniquely suited to identify weaknesses.”

“I’m an architect,” I said, like it was a shield.

“You’re both,” she replied.

I stared at the kitchen backsplash, at the little ceramic magnets Jay had made in art class. A lopsided star. A crooked rocket.

“I have a kid,” I said.

“I know,” she answered. “Which is why I’m calling you and not asking you to walk into a building with a gun.”

Her voice shifted, just slightly, like she understood what words cost. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, we’re not asking you to relive your trauma. We’re asking you to help stop someone else’s.”

The room felt too small.

“Send me the basics,” I said. “I’ll look.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then added, quieter: “And for the record, what you did—keeping your son alive—wasn’t unconventional. It was necessary.”

When I hung up, Jay looked up like he’d heard the silence change.

“Dad?” he asked. “You okay?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah, buddy. Just… work stuff.”

He studied me the way kids do when they can’t name what they’re seeing but they know it matters. Then he reached for his blocks.

He didn’t ask permission.

He just started building.

His hands moved with old muscle memory, stacking pieces into a tower on the kitchen table, a ritual that had outlasted fear.

I watched him widen the base—support first, then height.

My chest tightened.

Because in his small fingers I saw the truth: even children understood load-bearing.

And so did predators.

That night, after Jay fell asleep, I opened the file Agent Rosha had sent.

Names redacted.

Photos blurred.

But the structure was there like the skeleton of a building.

A congressional staffer living in Fairfax. Husband with a “clean” background, a charity-board persona, a job in data security at a contracting firm.

A sudden increase in “private” calls.

A best friend who always seemed to be in the right place.

A set of architectural drawings for a government annex that had shown up in an encrypted drop.

I stared at the last line of Rosha’s notes.

The couple met at a fundraiser.

My pulse thudded.

Georgetown had been full of fundraisers.

That was where Kirsten had found me.

And it wasn’t romantic.

It was recruitment.

A cold open disguised as champagne.

I closed my laptop and sat in the dark living room of our Arlington house.

In the corner, a nightlight glowed soft in the hallway.

Jay’s nightlight.

I’d bought it after the move because he said he liked the way it made the walls look “not scary.”

I hadn’t told him I liked it too.

I stared at it like it was a beacon.

Then my phone buzzed with a new message.

From Lucas.

You got a call, didn’t you.

I exhaled.

Lucas had been checking in less often lately, letting us breathe, but he never really left. He had that soldier loyalty, the kind that didn’t require constant contact because it never turned off.

I typed back: Yeah.

A beat.

Then: Want company?

I hovered over the keyboard.

The old Max would’ve said no, pretending strength meant solitude.

The new Max didn’t have energy for pride.

I typed: Tomorrow.

Lucas replied: I’ll bring pizza.

Some anchors don’t look heroic.

They look like a cardboard box and grease stains.

Still, they hold.

A hinge clicked in my chest.

—

The next morning I dropped Jay at school like always.

His school in Arlington wasn’t flashy. It was the kind of place with a counselor’s office painted in calming colors, a quiet room for kids who got overwhelmed, and teachers trained to recognize the moment a child’s body decided it wasn’t safe.

The staff knew our story in broad strokes.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just watched, the way good people watch—subtly, respectfully, ready.

Jay jumped out of the car and paused, backpack straps in his hands.

“Dad,” he said, “are you coming to the math night thing?”

I blinked. “Math night?”

He rolled his eyes with all the gravitas of a ten-year-old. “It’s like… a family thing. Games. You promised.”

I swallowed guilt. “Yeah. I’m coming. I promise.”

He nodded, satisfied, and started toward the doors.

Halfway there he turned back. “You’re doing that face,” he said.

“What face?” I asked.

“The one where you’re thinking about… spy stuff.”

My stomach dropped.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Are we in trouble again?”

I crouched to his level. “No,” I said, and forced certainty into the word. “We’re okay. I’m just… working on helping someone else.”

Jay searched my eyes like he was checking a blueprint for cracks.

Then he nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “But if you start acting weird, you have to tell me.”

My throat tightened. “Deal.”

He held up his pinky.

We hooked fingers.

Then he went inside.

I stayed in the car an extra thirty seconds, hands on the steering wheel, watching the doors.

A man leaned against a pillar near the entrance.

Dark jacket. Baseball cap.

He looked like a dad waiting.

But he wasn’t looking at the doors.

He was looking at my car.

I felt that old cold trickle along my spine.

I waited for him to look away.

He didn’t.

I drove off.

But the mirror showed him watching until I turned the corner.

And I knew the truth before I had proof.

Someone had found our new address.

One sentence, no mercy.

—

By noon I was in the FBI’s Washington field office, sitting in a conference room that smelled like copier toner and burned coffee.

Agent Rose Rosha walked in carrying a slim folder like it weighed nothing.

She was maybe early forties, hair pulled back, eyes sharp in the way of people who’d learned to catalog rooms the moment they entered.

She offered her hand. “Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“Max,” I said.

Her grip was firm. “Max,” she agreed, and it sounded like an acknowledgment of a weapon.

Two other agents sat at the table. One was younger, a technical analyst with nervous energy. The other was older, watchful, likely the supervisor.

Rosha opened the folder. “We’re going to keep this narrow,” she said. “We don’t need your whole story. We need your pattern recognition.”

She slid a photo across the table.

A couple.

Smiling.

The woman’s head tilted toward the man like she trusted him.

The man’s hand rested on her shoulder like he owned the angle.

“Caroline Mercer,” Rosha said. “Congressional staffer. Works on appropriations. Access to budget briefs, travel schedules, staff memos.”

My stomach tightened.

Rosha slid another photo.

The husband.

Tall, clean-cut, the kind of face that would appear on a company website under the heading OUR TEAM.

“Ethan Mercer,” she said. “Cybersecurity contractor. No criminal record. No red flags on paper.”

I stared at his eyes.

They were too blank.

Rosha continued, “We intercepted communications suggesting an attempted ‘termination’ if the asset can’t be extracted.”

The word termination made my skin crawl.

“You think he’s the asset?” I asked.

Rosha nodded. “We think he’s deep cover. Different service than Volkov. Different playbook. But there are echoes.”

She tapped the photo of Caroline. “We need her alive. We need her safe. And we need him contained without causing a media circus.”

The older agent spoke for the first time. “He’s not a diplomat. No immunity. But he’s careful. We can’t rush it.”

I leaned back, feeling the room in the way I’d trained myself to feel rooms.

“What do you need from me?” I asked.

Rosha’s eyes held mine. “How would you make him move?”

It was such a simple question.

And it was the exact question I’d asked myself two years ago.

I stared at the photos again.

“You don’t chase a deep-cover operative,” I said slowly. “You adjust the environment.”

The younger analyst blinked. “Like… pressure?”

“Like architecture,” I corrected.

Rosha’s mouth tightened in approval.

“An operative is trained to control variables,” I continued. “So you give them variables they can’t control. You make their routines fail. You isolate them from their support.”

The older agent frowned. “You’re not suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything illegal,” I said. “I’m suggesting you treat this like a building with hidden defects. Find the stress points. Push there.”

Rosha slid another paper toward me. “We have a list of their regular movements,” she said. “Grocery store, gym, an after-hours church group, and a charity board meeting.”

A charity board meeting.

The phrase hit my ribs like a fist.

“What’s the charity?” I asked.

Rosha glanced down. “Restoration Forward.”

My breath caught.

Restoration Forward was one of the nonprofits that had helped fund the new community center.

I’d spoken at one of their luncheons.

I’d shaken hands.

I’d smiled for photos.

My vision narrowed.

Rosha noticed. “You know it,” she said.

“I’ve been in their room,” I murmured.

The older agent’s voice sharpened. “Does that compromise you?”

“Everything compromises you,” I said, and hated how automatic it sounded.

Rosha held up a calming palm. “Max, we’re not asking you to infiltrate anything,” she said. “We’re asking you to advise.”

I forced my breath to slow.

Jay’s face flashed in my mind.

Math night.

Pinky promise.

“Okay,” I said. “Start by watching who Ethan talks to at that meeting. Not who he talks to publicly—who he signals to. Who he checks before he speaks. Who he follows with his eyes.”

The analyst scribbled.

Rosha nodded. “And then?”

“Then you remove his floor,” I said.

Silence.

The older agent frowned. “Meaning?”

“You cut him off from the person who keeps him steady,” I said. “Not Caroline. Not the wife.”

Rosha’s eyes sharpened. “The handler.”

“Yes,” I said.

The moment I said it, my mouth went dry.

Because I knew what that meant.

A handler didn’t always look like a foreign operative.

Sometimes it looked like a best friend with frosting on their finger.

Sometimes it looked like a coworker with a friendly smile.

Sometimes it looked like a man in a baseball cap outside an elementary school.

Rosha closed the folder. “We’ll run surveillance at the board meeting tonight,” she said. “We’ll pull everyone Ethan interacts with.”

I nodded once.

Rosha leaned in slightly. “And Max,” she said, lower, “if you feel like this puts your family at risk—if you see anything—tell me. Immediately.”

I held her gaze. “Someone watched me at Jay’s school this morning,” I said.

The room chilled.

Rosha didn’t blink. “Describe him.”

I did.

The older agent stood. “We’ll send a team.”

Rosha’s jaw tightened like a door locking. “No more surprises,” she said.

I wanted to believe her.

But belief isn’t a system.

It’s a hope.

And hope doesn’t stop bullets.

A hinge snapped inside me.

—

Lucas arrived that evening with pizza like he’d promised.

Jay tried to pretend he wasn’t thrilled, but he was. He ate two slices too fast and complained about being full like it was a tragedy.

Lucas watched him with a softness he’d only ever shown in private. “Kid’s getting bigger,” he said.

“He’s getting braver,” I replied.

Jay rolled his eyes. “I’m not scared,” he said, mouth full.

Lucas grinned. “That’s what brave people say.”

Jay scoffed. “No, brave people jump off cliffs.”

“Brave people tell the truth,” Lucas said.

Jay paused, considering. Then he slid off his chair and went to the living room corner where his blocks lived in a canvas bin.

He dumped them out and started building on the rug.

Lucas glanced at me. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I kept my voice low. “FBI wants me to consult,” I said.

Lucas didn’t look surprised. “Rosha?”

“You know her?”

“I know of her,” he said. “Smart. Doesn’t play games.”

“She thinks another family’s being targeted,” I said.

Lucas’s face tightened. “And that got you pulled back in.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Jay’s blocks clacked as he stacked them.

“I told myself we were done,” I said.

Lucas leaned against the counter. “You were never going to be done,” he said gently. “Not if you could stop it from happening to someone else.”

I stared at the pizza box like it could offer wisdom.

“I saw a guy watching Jay’s school,” I admitted.

Lucas’s posture changed instantly, the soldier surfacing. “You tell Rosha?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Jay called from the rug. “Dad! Look.”

I walked over and crouched.

His tower was wide and sturdy, built in layers.

“I made supports,” he said proudly.

“You did,” I said, and forced a smile.

Jay tapped the base. “If someone tries to knock it over, it won’t fall.”

My throat tightened.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “That’s the idea.”

Jay looked up, eyes serious. “Are you going to math night?”

I swallowed. “Yes. I promised.”

He nodded like he was filing it away as an important fact.

Lucas moved closer, voice low. “You want me to stay tonight?” he asked.

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve clung to the illusion of normal.

But I remembered the man in the baseball cap.

I remembered my son’s pinky.

“Yeah,” I said. “Stay.”

Lucas nodded like he’d expected it.

Some nights, you don’t choose safety.

You choose witnesses.

That’s what I chose.

A hinge settled into place.

—

At 2:58 a.m., I woke without an alarm.

The house was dark.

Quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own blood.

I lay still, listening.

Jay’s room was down the hall.

Lucas was asleep on the couch—he insisted on it, said he liked having the “line of sight” to the front door.

I almost laughed when he’d said it.

Now it wasn’t funny.

Because a second later, my phone vibrated on the nightstand.

Not a ring.

Just a vibration.

Like someone didn’t want to wake anyone.

Unknown number.

My hand hovered.

I glanced at the clock.

3:00 a.m.

Exactly.

I answered without speaking.

Breathing.

Then a voice filled the darkness.

Low.

Controlled.

Not my father.

But using my father’s tone like it had been studied.

“Fitzpatrick,” the voice said.

The way my father had said it.

My mouth went dry.

“Are you home?”

My skin went cold.

I didn’t answer.

“Are you home?” the voice repeated, patient as a lock picking.

Lucas stirred on the couch, sensing the change.

I whispered, “Who is this?”

A faint exhale—amusement, almost.

“Still building,” the voice said. “Still pretending it’s enough.”

Then the line went dead.

I sat up so fast the room tilted.

Lucas was on his feet instantly, eyes sharp. “What?” he mouthed.

I held up the phone.

Lucas’s expression hardened.

We moved without words.

Lucas checked the front door, the back door, the windows.

I slid down the hallway and cracked Jay’s door open.

Jay slept curled on his side, one hand under his cheek.

His face looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

I didn’t touch him.

I couldn’t.

Because if he woke, he’d read my fear like a headline.

I closed the door carefully.

In the kitchen, the motion-sensor light under the cabinet flickered on as I crossed.

I froze.

Not because of the light.

Because the back door handle moved.

Just a fraction.

A test.

Lucas raised two fingers: stay.

He shifted toward the back door, weight balanced.

I grabbed my phone and opened the security camera app.

The back camera showed the porch.

Empty.

The side camera showed the narrow strip along the fence.

Empty.

Then the front camera caught movement.

A hooded figure, face hidden, moving with calm efficiency.

He stepped to our front steps.

Bent down.

Placed something on the mat.

Then walked away, unhurried.

My breath caught.

Lucas leaned in and saw it too.

“Don’t go out,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” I whispered back.

We watched the figure disappear into darkness.

Lucas made a call without speaking loudly, his voice a low murmur into his phone.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.

On the mat, barely visible, sat a small object.

A block.

Wooden.

Like Jay’s.

Like a message written in a child’s language.

Minutes stretched.

Sirens didn’t come.

Lights didn’t flash.

No cavalry.

Just our breathing and the hum of the refrigerator.

Lucas finished his call and met my eyes. “Rosha’s sending a car,” he said. “But they’re not going to catch whoever that was.”

I nodded, throat tight.

Because the point wasn’t getting caught.

The point was being seen.

Lucas finally opened the front door a crack and checked the street.

Empty.

He grabbed the object with a gloved hand from his pocket—of course he had gloves—and brought it inside.

Jay’s blocks were in the living room.

This wasn’t one of them.

The wood was darker.

Older.

The edges worn the way a thing gets worn when it’s been handled by many hands.

Lucas set it on the kitchen table like it was evidence.

It sat there, small and obscene.

I stared at it.

And a memory rose sharp and unwanted: the neighbor’s floodlight, Kirsten in black, the suppressed pistol gleaming like a tooth.

I swallowed.

Lucas said, “We wait for Rosha.”

I nodded.

But my hand moved anyway.

Not to pick it up.

Just to touch the air near it.

To feel the weight of the threat.

Because I already knew what it meant.

Someone had been close enough to my door at exactly 3:00 a.m.

Someone had watched Jay build towers.

Someone had chosen the one symbol that could slip past adult defenses and stab straight into a child’s heart.

The night wasn’t done calling.

It was leaving notes.

And when I finally turned the block over, the number carved into the wood made my blood run cold.