Page 72 of In the Dark of the Past

The rot was everywhere.

Finn stepped backward off the porch, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked. His flashlight beam jittered slightly—the only sign of his adrenaline bleeding through the steel.

Atlas’s truck roared up the street thirty seconds later. He killed the engine and strode toward us, sweeping the yard and house like someone might leap out of the shrubs with a machete.

“What are we looking at?” he asked, voice already grim.

“Break-in,” Finn said. “Symbol. Message. No sign of forced entry—which means keyed access or someone who got to her lock earlier.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Inside’s not contaminated. We haven’t stepped past the threshold.”

Atlas swore under his breath. “This about Jenkins?”

“We’re not ruling it out,” Finn said.

I stood in the cold air, arms wrapped tight across my chest, watching the two men speak in clipped, efficient sentences—two wolves preparing to take apart the woods.

My hands shook.

I couldn’t stop them.

Not from fear. From fury.

This wasn’t a warning. This was an invasion. It was a violation painted inside my home—the one place I still had that hadn’t been touched by the past.

The Watchers had reached inside and put their hands on my life.

Atlas turned toward me, softening. “River, you missing anything? Anything broken?”

“I...haven’t looked.” My voice sounded far away. “We got here and...” I gestured helplessly at the doorway.

“We’re not letting you inside,” Finn said immediately. “Not tonight.”

“But my things⁠—”

“They’re just things,” he said, cutting through the spiral forming in my brain. “You are not stepping into a crime scene the Watchers chose for psychological effect.”

He was right.

That truth settled in my lungs like ash.

“Come on,” he murmured, guiding me a step back. “Let Atlas clear it.”

Atlas slipped on gloves, flashlight in one hand, the other hovering near his holster. “I’ll sweep and call CSU. No one touches anything until they arrive.”

He stepped over the threshold and disappeared inside.

The porch light flickered again, sputtering in the wet night.

My stomach clenched.

“This is escalation,” I whispered.

“It’s desperation,” Finn corrected. “They’re losing control. And when people like them start losing control, they make mistakes.”

“That’s what worries me.”

He stepped in front of me, blocking the porch and the sight of those red eyes. Storm-light carved shadows along the tense line of his shoulders.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”