Nate
A call comes through from Jackson. I step outside the cabin, letting the door close quietly behind me, and answer.
"Talk."
He exhales slowly.
"I dug deeper."
That's never good news.
"How deep?" I ask.
"Past police reports. Past financials. Past what he wanted me to see."
I lean against the porch railing, eyes scanning the tree line.
"Go on."
"There are no convictions," Jackson says. "He's clean on paper. But there are records."
"Define records."
"Three domestic disturbance calls. Two ER visits — fractured wrist, broken cheekbone. Both were logged as accidents. Neighbours reported shouting and objects breaking. One mentioned him accusing her of seeing other men."
Jackson exhales.
"It's classic coercive control, Nate."
My jaw tightens.
"Any charges?"
"None. She never pressed. One time, she told them everything was fine. Another time, she didn't answer the door."
I picture Wren standing silently behind a locked door.
"Was nothing documented at the ER?" I ask.
Jackson doesn't hesitate.
"Both documented as accidental."
Of course they were.
"Witness statements?" I ask.
"Neighbours heard yelling. Objects breaking. A woman crying. One report mentions a male voice shouting about seeing other men and money."
I close my eyes briefly.
"Pattern?" I ask.
Jackson lets out a short breath.
"Classic coercive control. Financial isolation. Social separation.
He cut her off from friends, restricted her access to money, and controlled where she could go. There's a paper trail of him slowly moving assets into accounts she couldn't access."
"So, when he said she stole from him…"
"He was already locking her out," Jackson finishes. "She didn't rob him. She took back what she could before she ran."
That lands heavy.
I grip the railing harder than necessary.
My knuckles blanch against the wood.
"There's more," Jackson says.
Of course there is.
"He filed a missing person report a month after she left. But before that, he hired a private investigator. That guy dropped the job after two weeks."
"Why?"
"Unstable client. Aggressive communication. Threatened legal action when the investigator asked too many questions."
I stare out at the trees, the quiet lake beyond them.
"She didn't disappear," I say quietly.
Jackson doesn't hesitate.
"She escaped."
Silence stretches between us.
"Why didn't any of this surface earlier?" I ask.
"Because she never pushed it," Jackson says. "No charges. No restraining orders. No court trial. And he knows how to behave in front of professionals."
I think about Daniel's messages.
The careful wording.
The manufactured calm.
"She doesn't think clearly when she's emotional."
"He's escalating," Jackson continues. "He's been searching for two years. He's contacted three different operators before you. Each time, he got more aggressive."
"And now he has her location?"
"Yes."
I let that sink in.
This isn't theoretical anymore.
This is operational.
"You still there?" Jackson asks.
"Yeah."
"I don't like this, Nate."
Neither do I.
"He's not after closure," Jackson says. "He's after compliance."
I look back toward Wren's house through the trees.
Her curtains are open again.
Light spills softly across the yard.
"I already sent him her routine," I say.
Jackson goes quiet.
"How detailed?"
"Enough."
There's no judgment in Jackson's voice when he speaks next.
"Then you need to stay."
I already am.
"I know," I reply.
Another pause.
"She doesn't know, does she?" Jackson asks.
"No."
"She thinks she's safe."
I swallow.
Jackson exhales slowly.
"I'll keep digging. Anything else that surfaces, you'll have it immediately."
"Good."
"And Nate?"
"Yeah."
"Watch your back. This guy's unpredictable. I'm going to track his movements, and I'll keep you updated."
"If he comes anywhere near her, I'll handle it."
I end the call and stand there for a moment longer, letting the quiet press in around me.
I replay Daniel's messages in my head.
The entitlement.
The impatience.
The way he stopped talking about money and started talking about her.
I gave him coordinates.
I gave him patterns.
I gave him access.
And she never consented to any of it.
Inside the cabin, Wren's camera feed flickers softly on my screen.
She moves through her studio, brush in hand, completely unaware that the man she escaped is circling back.
I sit down slowly.
This was supposed to be simple.
Find the girl.
Send the information.
Get paid.
Walk away.
Now I don't know whether I'm protecting her…
…or staying long enough to deal with Daniel myself.