Chapter Three
The road to the shooting range was quiet that morning, the city thinning as Matt drove with the window cracked just enough to let the air move through the car. Matt needed to unwind after Delaware. He drove down to the families beach house last night after leaving Laurel.
The BMW’s engine hummed steadily beneath him, and the rhythm of the drive did what it always did—settled his breathing, aligned his thoughts, and returned his body to something precise and manageable.
A moment with Bella, his sister—the youngest of the three—came to him.
They’d been sitting across from each other at lunch, sunlight cutting cleanly across the table between them. She smiled the way she always did—calm, patient—and waited until the waiter took their order before speaking. The words needed their own space.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
The moment unfolded slowly, then all at once. Matt remembered the laugh that escaped him, short and unguarded. The warmth that followed. He was going to be an uncle.
The bond he shared with Bella had always been built on love and admiration. The news only drew them closer. As she went on, talking about plans and hopes, he listened—already imagining what came next.
By the time he reached the range, the memory had settled into something steady. Matt moved through his routine without haste—posture aligned, breathing controlled, each motion deliberate and repeatable. This wasn’t adrenaline or escape. It was maintenance.
When he finished, his shoulders felt loose, his thoughts ordered. It was on to the next task. From there, he drove to the marina.
Matt loved the water. It was the first day of the season, and the boat was already gassed up and ready to launch.
Preparedness wasn’t a habit—it was who he was.
The lake opened wide as he eased the throttle forward, the boat cutting cleanly through the water as wind moved across his face. Out here, life stripped itself down to motion and balance, the surface of the lake reflecting a sky that felt briefly uncomplicated.
Carissa called while he was testing the throttle. “I’m still working backward from him,” she said. “No obvious handler. No clean money trail. Whatever this was, it wasn’t loud.”
“Let me know when you see a pattern,” Matt replied. “I’ll reach out to my finance contacts.”
Before Matt’s father died from a mugging last year, he worked in the finance world as a financial analyst. He was one of the best before his world came crashing down.
By the time he docked at the lake house, the sun was low and the air had cooled. Dinner was simple, eaten without distraction, and sleep came quickly—without resistance.