Page 28 of Only the Hunter

Her contact sheet is missing.

Not the entire page—just the second copy I made for myself. The one with the handwritten notes in the margin. The one that listed the cousin she trusted. The address she wouldn’t give the FBI until the last interview.

The room feels suddenly too small. Too quiet.

This wasn’t a burglary.

Someone came into my house and read my work.

I push back from the desk, my chair rolling an inch before stopping. The mug I left on the bookshelf yesterday is gone from the coaster and sitting on the windowsill instead. Cold. Empty.

I didn’t place it there.

There’s no question. Someone was here. In my home.

My phone is in my hand before I realize I’ve reached for it. I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over Shonda’s name. Scott’s.

The police.

And then I see the problem as clearly as the gaps in my files.

There’s no forced entry. Nothing of value is missing. No proof anyone took anything—only proof, in my own mind, that they knew exactly what to take.

If I tell someone my coffee mug moved, they’ll think I’m grasping at shadows. Tell them pages are missing, they’ll think I misplaced them.

I lower the phone.

The doorbell rings.

Once.

I flinch, my heart slamming hard against my ribs.

A pause. Then another ring. Longer this time. More insistent.

I sit there. Stunned. Envisioning someone in this room—likely wearing gloves.

Another ring. Crossing from annoying to rude.

I move toward the stairs on instinct, my body buzzing, my thoughts scattering as I take them two at a time. By the time I reach the front door, I’m shaking, breath coming too fast, fear and fury tangling in my chest.

I wrench the door open.

“Evie.”

Gabe stands on the stoop, his expression hard.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says. “You don’t open the door like that. Always check.”

And that’s when my legs give.

Chapter 8

Gabe

Evie’s knees hit the floor and I’m down, scooping her into my arms, scanning for injuries.

What the hell?