She reached into her night table, fingers closing around the cool metal of her firearm.
Then she saw it, silhouetted by the light of the clock: a Polaroid photo perched on the surface.
Her breath stalled. She reached for it slowly, holding it by the edges and turning it over. It was a picture of her thirty years ago, sitting in the interrogation room across from Gideon Ward.
She could still remember that night with perfect clarity. The sterile gray walls. The dim, flickering light. The way Ward sat there, watching her, smiling. The picture must have been captured from behind the one-way glass.
Charlotte’s pulse pounded as she flipped the photo over. There were only four words written on the back.
They are not finished.
Her grip tightened around the gun as she forced herself to stay calm, to assess, to breathe. Where was Bailey? Not a bark. Her dog hadn’t stirred all night. That alone unnerved her. He was always alert—too alert.
Charlotte's heart pounded as she checked the house. Her front door was still deadbolted, solid and unmarred. The windows were secure, latched from the inside. She ran her hand over the doorframe and examined the lock mechanism but found no splintered wood, no pry marks, no scratches—absolutely no signs of forced entry. It was as if the intruder had simply materialized inside, a chilling realization that spoke of a level of access far beyond a simple break-in. And yet, someone had been inside her home.
A slow, deliberate creak of a floorboard echoed from the hallway leading to the kitchen.
Her stomach clenched. She wasn’t alone.
Charlotte moved in silence. It had been fifteen years since she worked as a police officer, but the training came back to her like no time had passed. She moved like a shadow, gun raised, ears straining to hear any hint of movement.
The floorboards creaked near the staircase. Where was Bailey?
She kept her breathing steady as she moved along the hallway, back to the wall, muscles tense, pulse steady despite the slow dread creeping through her. She reached the back door, pressing against the frame.
Then there were footsteps behind her. The kitchen. Someone was leaving.
Charlotte moved quickly through the mudroom, reaching the kitchen in seconds, gun aimed as she scanned the entryway.
But the house was empty. The locks were still bolted. The alarm was never triggered. The dog never barked. Whoever was inside was already gone.
She took a slow breath, steadying herself. Then she headed up the central stairs. Turning back toward her bedroom, she caught her own reflection in the upstairs hallway mirror. The Polaroid was no longer on the night table. It was pinned to the mirror with a knife from her kitchen.
Charlotte’s throat went dry. Reflected in the mirror were a pair of muddy footprints, contrasting with the polished hardwood. They led into her bedroom, but there were none leading out. Her stomach twisted.
Someone had been standing right next to her while she slept. Watching her.
And she hadn’t awakened.
It wasn’t over.
Two
Monroe was in control now.The facility, once a haven for scientific discovery and a proving ground for minds like Gideon Ward’s, had become something else under her rule. Ruthless. Reckless. She was gutting what his father built, twisting it into a weapon he never intended.
And Gideon Ward let them imprison him rather than burn the whole thing to the ground
because he still believed in the program. Still believed it could be salvaged. Even from behind bars, he held pieces of the board. Enough to move one last piece where it counted.
That piece was Rook.
His father never called him by his real name. Just Rook, second only to the king. A piece with power but, more importantly, with reach. Quiet, strategic, unassuming—until it wasn’t. The piece people underestimated. Just like Monroe had.
She thought he was slow. Obedient. A relic of Ward’s loyalty, loyal himself. A dull tool that hadn’t learned how to cut.
She was wrong.
Rook saw everything. He absorbed everything. From the time he could walk, his father had trained him to read rooms like they were blueprints. To study the game before stepping ontothe board. He wasn’t just capable; he was brilliant. A quiet storm waiting for permission to move.
