The pedestrian gate locked behind him.
The vehicle barrier remained sealed.
His truck sat uselessly in the snow, and the only direct road back to town was now guarded by deputies who had his mistress, her recording, and a live feed of everything he had said.
The dispatcher warned me immediately.
“Clara, the male suspect is returning toward the cabin.
Estimated travel time by vehicle is eleven minutes.
Can you secure yourself?”
I looked around the dark room.
The cabin had three exterior doors, six ground-floor windows, and one reinforced communications closet built during my years leading rescue operations.
The closet contained a radio console, emergency batteries, water, blankets, and an interior deadbolt anchored into the framing.
“Yes,” I said.
“But I need him talking.”
“That is not your responsibility.”
“It may be the difference between assault and attempted murder.”
“We already have enough to respond.”
“Then let the line stay open.”
She did not argue again.
I rolled to the communications closet, pulling a medical bag from the wall on my way.
Inside, I elevated my injured limb, added pressure to the bandage, and swallowed the nausea rising in my throat.
The cabin monitor showed only swirling snow.
Then headlights struck the porch.
Mark had returned.
He abandoned the Raptor at an angle, leaving the driver’s door open.
He stumbled through knee-deep snow without a hat, his expensive coat hanging loose around him.
For the first time that night, he looked frightened.
He climbed the porch steps and pounded on the door.
“Clara!”
I activated the cabin intercom.
“I can hear you.”
His head snapped toward the speaker.
“Open the bridge.”
“Where is Chloe?”
“She betrayed us.”
“There is no us.”
He struck the door with the flat of his hand.
“You have no idea what you’re doing.
The police will hear about your mental state.
I’ll tell them the accident changed you.
I’ll tell them you became paranoid and unstable.”
His threat was not new.
During my rehabilitation, he had begun describing my anger as confusion and my boundaries as symptoms.
He told friends that pain medication made me unreasonable.
Whenever I challenged him, he lowered his voice and asked whether I had remembered my dose.
Now he tried the same tactic against cameras, dispatch recordings, and his mistress’s phone.
I said, “Tell me why you removed my prosthetic.”
“I didn’t.”
“The camera watched you.”
Silence.
Snow blew across the porch behind him.
Then his face hardened.
“You grabbed me first.”
“I tried to stop you.”
“You were hysterical.”
“I asked why the cabin was locked.”
“You were supposed to stay in the truck.”
“With whom?”
