The cabin smelled different that evening.
Not like pine.
Not like damp wood.
Like food.
Real food.
Garlic.
Butter.
Something roasting.
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, wrists still bound in black electrical tape, when she heard him moving around in the main room.
Drawers opening.
Plates clinking.
A chair scraping across wood.
Then the bedroom door opened.
Jay stood there, freshly showered.
Hair combed back.
Clean shirt.
Cologne.
Her stomach tightened.
"What's going on?" she asked cautiously.
"I thought we'd have dinner," he said calmly.
She blinked.
"Dinner."
"Together."
Her pulse quickened.
He stepped forward and crouched in front of her.
"I'm going to untie you," he said. "But if you run—"
"I won't," she said quickly.
He searched her face.
Looking for deception.
Then he carefully peeled the tape from her wrists.
It burned as it came off.
She didn't flinch.
He helped her stand.
Her legs felt weak from days of limited movement.
When she stepped into the main room, her breath caught.
He had set the small wooden table with candles.
Two plates.
Two glasses.
Wine.
Like this was a date.
Like she had agreed to be here.
"You're insane," she whispered.
His jaw flexed.
"I'm trying."
"For what?"
"For us."
There it was again.
Us.
He pulled out a chair for her.
"Sit."
She hesitated.
Then did.
He poured wine into her glass.
Her mind raced.
Door location.
Distance to it.
Lock type.
His proximity.
"You look beautiful," he said softly.
Her skin crawled.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked quietly.
He sat across from her.
"Because I want you to remember what we had."
"You mean when you followed me? Threatened me?"
His expression darkened slightly.
"You exaggerate."
She clenched her jaw.
He reached across the table and took her hand.
She forced herself not to yank it away.
"Eat," he said.
She lifted the fork.
Pretended.
Watched him instead.
He relaxed slowly.
That was his mistake.
The moment he reached for the wine bottle again—
She shoved the table forward.
Hard.
The candle tipped.
Wine spilled.
Glass shattered.
She bolted for the door.
Bare feet slamming against wood.
Her fingers reached the handle—
Locked.
She twisted it desperately.
Behind her, a chair crashed to the floor.
"You ungrateful—"
His hand grabbed her hair and yanked her backward.
Pain exploded across her scalp.
She screamed.
He dragged her away from the door, fury replacing every trace of calm.
"I was being nice!"
"You're a monster!" she screamed back.
He shoved her hard against the wall.
Her head struck wood.
Dizziness swam through her vision.
"You ruin everything!" he shouted.
She clawed at his arm.
He slammed her onto the couch.
"You think you can just leave me again?"
"I never belonged to you!"
That did it.
His face twisted.
He struck her.
Once.
Twice.
Not controlled anymore.
Wild.
"You are mine!" he roared. "You don't get to walk away!"
She kicked hard, catching his shin.
He stumbled.
She scrambled toward the kitchen counter, grabbing blindly.
Her hand closed around something metal.
A fork.
Useless.
He tackled her to the floor before she could swing it.
The air left her lungs.
He pinned her wrists above her head.
Breathing hard.
Eyes unrecognizable.
"Look what you make me do," he hissed.
Tears burned her eyes—but not from fear.
From rage.
"You'll never win," she spat.
For a split second—
Something in him flickered.
Then hardened.
He released one hand only long enough to grab the tape again.
This time, he bound her wrists in front of her.
Tighter.
Crueler.
Then he dragged her back to the bedroom and shoved her onto the bed.
"You want ugly?" he said coldly. "Fine."
The door slammed shut behind him.
The lock clicked.
Sarah curled onto her side, body shaking.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But now she understood something clearly.
He wasn't losing control.
He was showing it.
And that made him more dangerous than ever.
Branson Police Department
Brian stared at the copied metadata again.
Then made a decision.
He quietly submitted a background cross-check request on sealed Carbondale case references linked to stalking complaints within the timeframe of Jack's transfer.
Generic.
Not specific.
It wouldn't flag immediately.
But it might pull something loose.
His phone buzzed.
Molly.
"I found more," she said, breathless.
"What?"
"Archived emails Sarah never deleted."
He straightened.
"Send them."
"They're worse than the texts."
Seconds later, the files appeared.
One email made his stomach tighten.
You don't understand how easy it is to look things up when you know where to look.
Timestamp: Two years ago.
Brian leaned back slowly.
Access.
Again.
He rubbed his jaw.
This wasn't a coincidence.
But it still wasn't proof.
Carbondale
Molly sat on the edge of Sarah's bed, staring at the laptop screen.
Claire stood nearby.
"Maybe you should stop," Claire said gently.
"I can't."
"You don't know who this guy really is."
"I know enough."
Claire lowered her voice.
"What if he's watching you too?"
The thought sent a chill down Molly's spine.
She hadn't considered that.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Brian:
Thank you. This helps more than you know.
She exhaled slowly.
"I'm going back to Branson after finals," she said firmly.
Claire looked frightened.
"Molly—"
"I can't sit here."
"If this man is dangerous, you could be next."
Molly swallowed.
Fear flickered inside her.
But something stronger overpowered it.
Resolve.
"He won't scare me."
But deep down—
She was already scared.
Back at the cabin, Jay sat alone at the ruined table.
Candles extinguished.
Glass on the floor.
Wine soaking into wood.
His breathing had slowed.
He stared at his hands.
Then toward the locked bedroom door.
"You make me do this," he muttered.
Outside, the lake remained still.
Silent.
Unbothered.
And miles away—
Brian stared at a growing list of inconsistencies.
The pieces were there.
They just didn't fit.
Yet.