Chapter 42

Chapter 42
I didn’t sleep. Not in the usual sense, not the drifting, warm kind that leaves you rested. I must have dozed in fits, shallow and wired, my body coiled tight beneath the blanket even when Jackson’s hand rested steady over mine. But as the first light slid across the windowpanes, thin and pale, I was already sitting up, wrapped in a sweatshirt and the same numb clarity I’d felt last night.

The envelope still sat on the table. Jackson had left it untouched, per my request. Just a folded square of white, nearly blank, except for the knowing weight it carried inside. I held my tea like a shield as I watched the yard fill with morning. Dew clung to the grass in silver streaks. The woods beyond the fence held still, but it was the kind of stillness that whispered, not peace, but silence with teeth.

Jackson stepped into the kitchen barefoot, quiet. He didn’t ask how I slept. He didn’t say good morning. He just crossed to the window beside me and stood there, shoulder to shoulder, until I finally spoke.

“He was here,” I said. “Last night. While we laughed, at the same time, we sat on that couch. He stood outside and took that picture. Then walked up to the door and placed it like a gift.”

Jackson’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t move. I felt the tension ripple through him, sharp and hot, barely restrained. His hand twitched at his side before he clenched it into stillness.

“I want to call the detective,” I said, setting my mug down. “Dom needs to rework the cameras. I want this logged. I want a paper trail thick enough to wrap around his neck.”

Jackson finally met my gaze. His voice was low. “We’ll do all of that. And more.”

But I could see it—that flicker of helpless fury behind his calm, the protective edge rising too fast. And I wasn’t going to let him carry it alone.

“I’m not spiraling, Jackson,” I said. “But I’m done standing still.”

Dom showed up twenty minutes later, coffee in hand, hair wet from a rushed shower, and jaw already tight. He didn’t need to be briefed; Jackson must’ve texted him. He bypassed small talk and went straight to the equipment rack in the hallway, pulling up the security footage on his tablet. We sat around the dining table again, the envelope lying in the center like a challenge.

“There’s no gap in the system,” Dom said, scrolling through motion sensor logs. “No alert. No footage at the door itself. Whoever placed that envelope knew our angles. He walked right between them.”

“So he studied us,” I said. “Watched long enough to map our blind spots.”

Dom nodded. “It was intentional. This wasn’t an impulse. It was controlled.”

I looked at the photo again, not because I needed to, but because I refused to look away. My face, blurred slightly by glass, half-turned in laughter. Jackson’s form in the background, caught midmotion, one hand outstretched toward mine. Daniel had captured a moment of safety and tried to make it feel like a violation.

I pushed the envelope toward Dom. “Print a copy. Bag the original. I want this filed.”

Jackson stood abruptly, his hands braced against the edge of the table. I could feel the heat radiating from him, see the way he stared out the window like he could will Daniel into view.

“I’ll double the cameras,” Dom said. “Adjust all the blind zones. Reinforce the door. Motion lights around the back and the eastern side of the yard.”

“I want to help,” I said.

They both looked at me.

Dom opened his mouth to argue, but I beat him to it. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because I trust myself.”

Jackson’s expression shifted, something quiet blooming behind his eyes.

“Alright,” Dom said. “Let’s get to work.”

We walked the perimeter together—Dom pointing out the weak angles, Jackson moving silently beside us, his gaze scanning the trees like he could see Daniel behind every trunk. I asked about motion sensors, the range on the night cameras, and the Wi-Fi redundancy in case of a power outage. Dom answered everything without hesitation. I wasn’t background noise anymore.

After lunch, I drove into town alone. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t wait for backup. I walked into the station with the photo and my prior report and asked to speak with Detective Rowe.

He didn’t question me when I laid the photo on his desk, now sealed in a clear evidence bag. I explained everything—the timing, the location, the lack of entry, the implications.

“This is enough to escalate,” he said. “He’s no longer just harassing you. He’s trespassed and documented you inside a private residence. That’s stalking, Olivia. With a history behind it.”

I nodded. “Then let’s call it what it is.”

I gave my statement. Signed the release form. Walked back to my car without shaking, without checking the rearview mirror more than once.

When I got home, the house looked the same, but it felt different. Tighter. Watched over. There were new motion lights along the roof, and fresh wiring tucked behind the porch columns. Inside, Jackson was in the backyard with Dom, their voices low and focused. I didn’t interrupt. I just watched for a moment, then stepped barefoot onto the grass. He turned before I reached him. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my forehead to his chest, and felt his arms come around me like gravity. He didn’t ask what I did. He just held me like he already knew.