Page 145 of Override

Not because I expect to see her.

Not because I have a plan.

I return because driving away from the estate feels too much like leaving her alone inside it.

That is the explanation I refuse to give myself as I guide the SUV down the narrow service road bordering the Gallagher property for the third night in a row.

Instead, I tell myself the location gives me a stronger signal to Declan’s phone. That monitoring from outside the estate reduces the chance of Ronan tracing the mirrored connection back to Grayline. That being close enough to physically observe the security rotation is simply good operational practice.

They are all reasonable explanations.

None of them are the truth.

The truth is that I need to be near her.

Even if she doesn’t know I’m here.

Even if the only thing separating us is a fence, several acres of heavily monitored property, and one husband who has turned her home into a prison.

The sun has nearly disappeared by the time I ease between the same two pine trees I used the night before. The SUV fits into the narrow clearing with inches to spare, its dark paint disappearing beneath the thick canopy overhead.

I shut off the engine and sit for a moment while the cooling metal ticks quietly around me.

There is no reason to stay tonight.

I checked every exterior feed before leaving Grayline. Nothing unusual. No unexpected vehicles. No change in the guard rotation. Declan’s messages have been painfully routine.

Deliveries.

Shift changes.

Instructions to prevent the staff from interacting with Maeve unless necessary.

That last one had taken me nearly an hour to stop thinking about.

I should return to the office. Matt will notice eventually. Bullet probably already has.

Rachel definitely has.

She left two containers of food on my desk this afternoon without saying a word. One contained pasta. The other contained enough cookies to feed a small military unit, which means she either knows exactly what I’m doing or believes sugar can solve psychological collapse.

Statistically, she may not be wrong.

I reach for the door handle.

Then stop.

The house is less than half a mile beyond the trees. Close enough that I can see the faint glow of the upper windows through the branches when the wind moves them aside.

She is somewhere inside.

I release the handle and reach for the equipment in the back seat.

The routine has become embarrassingly efficient.

Laptop.

Portable battery.