Blake watched from his rental car as the young man packed his belongings into David's vehicle at dawn.
He recognized the young man from the coffee shop—Marcus Chen, according to Frank's research. Blake had spent the last week documenting all three of their routines, and now, watching Marcus load his vinyl records and boxes into a car that definitely wasn't his, Blake understood what was happening.
The group was fracturing.
This was good. This was opportunity. A person alone was vulnerable in ways a group of three was not.
Blake had been parked a quarter-mile from the house, hidden behind a stand of trees. He had a thermos of cold coffee and a notebook where he'd documented everything: James's wake time (6:30 AM), Sarah's departure time (9 AM), Marcus's work schedule (10 AM to 4 PM). Blake had become a student of their lives in a way that was both methodical and intimate.
But now the pattern was changing. Marcus was leaving. Blake could feel it—the moment he'd been waiting for was approaching. The moment when James would be truly vulnerable.
Blake started the car and drove back to his motel.
The motel room was small and depressing. Blake had rented it under a false name and paid cash. The woman at the desk hadn't asked questions. In Blake's experience, motel clerks never did.
He opened his laptop and called Frank using a encrypted messaging app that Vincent's operation used. They didn't talk on regular phones. They didn't meet in public. They communicated through layers of digital walls that made them essentially invisible.
"Status?" Frank's message appeared on screen.
Blake typed: "Target located Ithaca NY. Confirmed position 7 days. Target group fragmenting. One member departed this morning heading west. Target and one female associate remaining. Likely to relocate soon."
Frank: "Timeline?"
Blake: "Days. Maybe hours. They're packing."
Frank: "Vincent wants you back for Trenton job. Scheduled 3 weeks."
Blake: "Can't leave yet. Window is closing. Need 2 more weeks."
There was a long pause. Blake knew what Frank was doing—relaying the message to Vincent, waiting for instructions. The pharmaceutical company job in New Jersey was lucrative and Vincent was counting on Blake to be part of the crew. But Blake had been honest with Vincent from the beginning: he had something personal he needed to handle.
Frank: "Vincent says 10 days. No more. After that, you're off crew unless you come back."
Blake: "Understood."
He closed the laptop.
Ten days. It was enough time if he was smart about it. It was enough time to follow James west. It was enough time to wait for the right moment. It was enough time to end this.
That afternoon, Blake watched Sarah leave for the bookstore.
He gave it five minutes, then approached the house.
He didn't knock. He didn't try to break in. Instead, he walked around the perimeter, looking through windows, understanding the layout. The kitchen overlooked the back property. The living room had two exits—front door and side door. The bedrooms were upstairs. The bathroom was in the middle.
If Blake were to attack inside, James would have limited escape options. The house was isolated enough that neighbors wouldn't hear screaming. The woods provided cover if Blake needed to disappear quickly.
But that wasn't how Blake planned to do this.
He'd spent ten years thinking about how he would kill James Patterson. He'd gone through different scenarios: confrontation, ambush, slow poisoning over time, making it look like an accident. But all of those had the same problem—they ended with Blake going back to prison or worse.
What he actually needed was for James to understand. Blake needed James to know that this was coming. Blake needed to look James in the eye and explain why.
So Blake had a new plan.
He was going to follow James west. He was going to wait for the moment when James was alone. He was going to approach him and let James see him. Let James recognize him. Let James understand that ten years hadn't changed Blake's mind or his purpose.
And then, when James tried to run, Blake would do what he'd been planning all along.
It was a good plan. It was a plan that felt clean and final.
Blake returned to the motel and waited.
That evening, Sarah came home from work. Blake watched her through the kitchen window. She looked tired. She went to the refrigerator, pulled out ingredients, started making dinner.
Then James came downstairs. He looked different than he had a week ago—more present, more alive. Something had changed in him.
They ate together. Blake watched them eat and talk and even laugh at something. For a moment, Blake felt something like pity. These were two damaged people trying to help each other. They didn't deserve what was coming.
But then Blake remembered why he was here. He remembered Emily. He remembered prison. He remembered the ten years of accumulated hate that had crystallized into something that felt like purpose.
Blake didn't deserve pity. Neither did James.
Around 8 PM, Blake saw them packing.
Not casually packing. Seriously packing. Suitcases. Boxes. The methodical packing of people who were leaving and didn't plan to come back.
Blake felt his heart rate accelerate. This was it. They were leaving. They were driving west.
He went back to his room and packed his own belongings—which took about five minutes since he'd never really unpacked. He filled up the rental car with gas. He checked the weather forecast and confirmed that a massive storm system was building over the central United States. Rain. Wind. Possible flash flooding.
Perfect conditions for what he had in mind.
By midnight, Blake was back at the house, watching.
The lights went out at 11:15 PM. James and Sarah must have decided to sleep before driving in the morning.
Blake sat in his car and thought about the next day. He thought about following them on the highway. He thought about the moment when he'd finally be close enough to do something. He thought about James's face when he realized who it was following him.
He thought about ten years of waiting finally reaching its endpoint.
At 2 AM, Blake dozed off to the sound of wind picking up in the trees. The storm was coming from the west, racing toward them. By tomorrow, it would arrive.
Blake would be following right behind it.
At 6 AM, Blake watched the house's lights come on.
Sarah appeared first, moving through the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who'd made this same movement a hundred times. She made coffee. Started breakfast.
James came down at 6:45, looking more rested than he had in weeks.
By 8 AM, their luggage was loaded into Sarah's ex-husband's SUV.
By 8:30 AM, they were pulling out of the driveway.
Blake waited until they were completely gone, then started his rental car and began to follow. He maintained a distance of about a quarter-mile. There were enough other cars on the road that Blake wouldn't stand out. James and Sarah wouldn't be looking for a tail. They had no idea Blake existed.
Blake turned on the radio. A weather report was describing the storm system with unusual urgency. Flash flood warnings. Tornado watches. The kind of weather that made people nervous about driving.
Blake turned up the volume and gripped the steering wheel.
He was driving west now, following James Patterson like a shadow. Following him toward whatever destiny Blake had prepared.
It was going to be a long drive. It was going to be the longest drive of both their lives.
Blake smiled as he merged onto the highway, disappearing into the traffic, invisible but present, waiting for the moment when everything would finally resolve.