POV: Hunter
The porch light from Riley's house clicked on, a sudden yellow square in the dark. It snapped Hunter's focus back. Tessa was still clinging to him, her tears soaking through his shirt. The police were everywhere, taking photos, talking in low voices. But his mind was across the yard, on the woman who had just disappeared.
She knows. She's military intelligence. She saw my face when I saw the map. She heard the sheriff read the text from 'M.' She's putting it together right now. Is she a threat? An ally? I can't tell.
"Sir? Mr. Hunter?" Sheriff Miller's voice cut through his thoughts. "We need to get your official statement. And your wife's. Can you both come down to the station? It'll be more comfortable than… this." He gestured at the carnage.
Hunter nodded, playing the part of the shell-shocked husband. "Yeah. Okay. Whatever you need." He gently peeled Tessa off him. Her eyes were red and puffy. "It's okay, Tess. We just have to answer some questions."
"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice raw. "Who were they? What did they want?"
They wanted me dead, Tess. And your mother sent them. Did you draw them a picture to help? The questions screamed in his head, but he just shook his head, feigning the same confusion. "I don't know."
As they were led to a patrol car not handcuffed, but not free either Hunter saw Riley again. She was standing on her own porch now, a steaming mug in her hand, watching the procession. Their eyes met for a second. She gave no nod, no smile. Just a steady, observing gaze.
She's waiting. She's seeing if I'll break character.
At the station, it was a blur of bright lights and slow questions. They put Hunter and Tessa in separate rooms. A kindness, or a tactic? He sat in a small, beige interview room, a detective across from him.
"Start from the beginning, Mr. Hunter. What did you hear?"
Hunter told his story. The simplified, civilian version. He was asleep. He heard the door break. He hid. He fought in a panic. He got lucky. He emphasized luck over skill at every turn. He was just a scared guy defending his home.
"And you have no idea who would want to harm you? No disgruntled clients from your security work? No enemies?"
"None," Hunter said, looking the detective squarely in the eye. It was the truth. His Delta work was classified, and the enemies from that life were either dead or overseas. This was new. This was personal. "My work was boring. Logistics protection. Nothing violent."
The detective, a tired-looking man named Bryson, didn't look convinced, but he had no evidence to the contrary. Just a house full of dead mercenaries and a survivor with strangely good luck.
After two hours, they let him go, telling him not to leave town. He walked out into the lobby. Tessa was already there, wrapped in a blanket a paramedic had given her. She looked tiny and broken.
"They asked me about Mom," she said quietly as they walked to their car, which a deputy had brought from the house.
Hunter's senses went on high alert. "Why?"
"I don't know. They asked about her debts. About if she'd been acting strange. I said she was stressed about money, but that's all. Why would they ask that?" She looked up at him, genuinely bewildered.
Because her initial is on the hitman's phone, Tessa. He opened the passenger door for her. "I don't know," he lied again. The lies were piling up, a wall between them. "Maybe they're just checking everything."
He drove in silence. The house was a crime scene, taped off. They couldn't go in. A social worker at the station had arranged a room at a nearby motel. The Sleepy Hollow Inn. The name felt like a bad joke.
He pulled into the motel parking lot. As he helped Tessa out, a figure stepped from the shadows between two cars.
Riley.
She was still in her hoodie, hands in her pockets. "Rough night," she said, her voice neutral.
Tessa jumped, clutching Hunter's arm. "Who are you?"
"Riley Kane. Next-door neighbor. I called the police." She looked at Hunter. "I heard they're putting you up here. I brought you something." She held out a small paper bag. "It's just some basic toiletries. Toothbrushes, paste. Stuff you can't get from your house right now."
Hunter took the bag, wary. It was a kind gesture, but nothing about this woman felt merely kind. "Thank you."
"You should get some rest," Riley said, her eyes locking with Hunter's. "But you won't, will you? You're going to lie awake and run through every second of it. You're going to think about the map. And the text. And you're going to wonder who in your life is named 'M.'" She said it calmly, as if discussing the weather.
Tessa gasped. "What? What text? What are you talking about?"
Riley's gaze finally shifted to Tessa. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. It's police business." She took a step back. "Get some sleep, Mr. Hunter. You're going to need it. The first 24 hours after a traumatic event are critical… for making clear decisions."
She turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.
Tessa was trembling. "Hunter, what text? What did she mean?"
Hunter stared into the darkness where Riley had vanished. Her message wasn't for Tessa. It was for him. 'I know. And I know you're thinking about it. And you should.'
He put an arm around his wife. "I don't know, honey. Come on, let's get inside." He led her toward the motel room door, the key cold in his hand.
But as he pushed the door open, his mind was far away, solving a new problem. Riley Kane wasn't just a neighbor. She was a player. And she had just entered the game.
Riley has deliberately revealed knowledge of the investigation to Hunter, signaling she's involved, while leaving Tessa terrified and confused.