Read Chapter 13: Stale Air, Heavy Hearts

Rain streaked the cottage windows in silver rivulets, each drop tracing a path down the glass like a slow, deliberate tear. Evelyn watched them from the worn armchair by the fireplace, a script open on her lap that she hadn't turned a page from in forty minutes. Outside, the Cotswolds rolled away in sodden green folds, beautiful and utterly useless.

Marcus stood by the window. He always stood by the window. Every morning, every afternoon, every evening—a human fixture she could set her watch against. His silhouette was familiar now, almost comforting in its predictability. Almost.

"How long have we been here?" she asked.

"Three weeks," he said without turning. "Twenty-two days."

"Twenty-two days." She let the words hang, tasting their weight. "I've gone through every book in this house, rearranged the kitchen twice, and I can identify nine different bird species by their calls. That's not living, Marcus. That's hiding."

"You wanted to go back after the dinner. You saw him there." His voice was level, patient. It made her want to throw something.

"I know what I saw." She closed the script with a snap. "And I also know that sitting in this cottage like a frightened bird isn't finding him. It's letting him win."

Marcus finally turned from the window. His face was unreadable, but she caught something flicker in his eyes—not anger, not frustration. Something closer to weariness.

"Bill's still working on the cell tower lead. The photographer is being traced. We have people hunting through every bank record, every payment trail. We're getting closer."

"We're getting nowhere," she shot back. "You said two days on the Cotter front. It's been three weeks. Someone with military connections paid a photographer to photograph me during a closed audition. Your friend Hendricks is connected somehow. And the man who stalked me for six months is still out there, walking through crowds, buying roses." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated herself for it.

Marcus's jaw tightened. "I never said it would be fast. But I'm not going to lose you because we got impatient."

"Lose me?" Evelyn stood, the script falling to the floor. "You don't have me to lose, Marcus. I'm not a package you're delivering. I'm a person who needs to live her life."

The words hung between them, sharp and honest. Marcus held her gaze for a long moment, then walked to the small sideboard where a battered kettle sat. He didn't speak as he measured tea leaves into a pot—a gesture so domestic it felt almost foreign on him.

"I lost someone," he said quietly. "Because I got impatient."

Evelyn's anger deflated, replaced by something sharper. She watched his back, the tension in his shoulders beneath the dark knit jumper. He never talked about Afghanistan. Not really. The one night in this very cottage when she'd broken down, he'd offered fragments—enough to make her see the shape of his ghosts without their faces.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

He poured the tea, his movements careful, deliberate. "Hendricks was my spotter. Three tours together. I trusted him with my life more than—" He stopped, shaking his head. "More than anyone."

Evelyn crossed to the sideboard, taking the cup he offered. Their fingers brushed, and neither pulled away.

"We were on a reconnaissance mission in Helmand. Got word of a Taliban commander operating near a village. Intel said he'd be there for a resupply. We positioned ourselves, waited. Hendricks had a bad feeling about it." Marcus's voice was even, but she saw his knuckles whiten around his own cup. "Said something didn't add up. The timing was too convenient. I overruled him. Pushed to take the shot."

"What happened?"

"Ambush." The word came out flat, hollowed. "We took fire from three angles. I got Hendricks out, but he took shrapnel in his spine. Walked with a cane for the rest of his service. Medically discharged. Last I saw him, he looked at me like I'd killed the man he used to be." Marcus set down his cup, untouched. "He called me six weeks ago. Said he had information about someone watching you. Something he'd stumbled onto through old contacts. Said he'd send me proof. Then he disappeared."

Evelyn felt the chill run through her. "That's why you took this job."

"Partly." He finally looked at her. "I owed him. And when I saw your photograph in the file, the one the surveillance captured, I recognized the pattern. The positioning. The timing of the shots. It's professional. Military."

"So you think whoever is following me is connected to what happened to Hendricks."

"I think it's someone who knows both of us." He said it simply, but the implication landed like a blow.

Evelyn sat down heavily, the tea warming her palms against the draft that crept through the cottage. "And knowing you," she said slowly, "you think I'm a target because of it. Because of you."

Marcus didn't confirm, didn't deny. He just stood there, a man accustomed to carrying burdens alone.

"My father died when I was twelve," Evelyn said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Heart attack. Sudden, no warning. He was going to take me to see a musical that weekend—my first West End show. We'd been planning it for months. I had a dress picked out. Nothing fancy, but I remember thinking it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever owned." She swallowed. "My mother sold it in a charity bag the following spring. She said it was time to move forward. I never forgave her for that."

Marcus was quiet. Then, gently: "That's when you decided to act."

"Not consciously. But I think I've spent my whole life trying to find a stage where people do come back. Where happy endings are possible." She gave a sad laugh. "Foolish, really."

"No," he said. "Not foolish. Hopeful."

The word hung in the damp air between them. Evelyn looked up at him, at the scars at his temple, the careful distance in his posture that he never quite abandoned. "What did you want to be?" she asked. "Before all of this?"

Marcus's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "A rugby player. Proper one. Played for the school team, thought I might go professional. My father said I'd break my neck and my mother cried at every match." He paused. "Then the army came recruiting at nineteen, and it seemed like a way to make her proud differently."

"And now?"

"Now I keep people alive." He met her eyes. "It's enough."

The rain intensified against the glass, a sudden gust rattling the panes. Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, to say something that might bridge the space between them, but the phone on the sideboard buzzed—the landline, a relic Mrs. Holloway swore by.

Marcus crossed and picked it up before the second ring. "Yes." A pause. "Go ahead." Another pause, longer this time. His face shifted, hardening into something professional. "Eleven thousand. Same source. Greenwich tower again?" He listened, jaw working. "Send me the coordinates. I'll handle it."

He hung up and turned to Evelyn, and she could see the calculation behind his eyes.

"Bill found a second payment," he said. "Same month as the first, different photographer. Same Greenwich cell tower. Someone's been documenting you for at least a year, Evelyn. Not just at your house or work. Places I haven't found yet."

Evelyn felt the world tilt. "Places like the cottage?"

Marcus's silence was answer enough.