Order Of Rage

By Lisa Caviness

When chance brings you together, will rage tear you apart?
Dr. Carson Maxwell grew up with the best of everything. But all isn't what it seems...
Five years ago, Carson escaped the clutches of her family's insidious organization, The Order, and carefully crafted a new life in Boston, untouched by the imperious control of her past. When she witnesses a random crime the ensuing media spotlight shatters her carefully constructed façade. Running is no longer an option. Instead, she must turn toward her past and fight. Complicating matters is her unexpected attraction to a handsome FBI agent.
Adam Forrester, FBI agent, has two goals: catch the elusive Birthday Killer who is viciously murdering Bostonian women and rise in the ranks of the Bureau. But when he meets Carson Maxwell, his life and his heart careen off course. Danger surrounding this secretive woman bleeds into his own life, delivering fresh threats and the one woman who tore apart his life.
As danger builds, Carson and Adam head to Miami and into the clutches of those bent on destroying them. To survive, they must risk everything, including their lives and their hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Caviness
• Release date: Jun 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780997413250

Lisa Caviness

As a lifelong reader of an eclectic pool of books from mystery/thrillers, science fiction, contemporary romance, and the classics, Lisa Caviness has never been without a book on the nightstand and a long to be read list. Like many writers, she started crafting stories as a child. However as an adult, creativity took a back seat to her career in pharmaceutical and medical device research. In 2013, Lisa decided to get serious about writing and joined Romance Writers of America (Crossroads Romance Writers, Indiana RWA, and Kiss of Death Chapters) and later Sisters in Crime (Speed City Chapter). The education she has received proved invaluable but more importantly the support from fellow writers has enriched her in thrilling and unexpected ways.Lisa writes romantic suspense.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a hell of a day to be hunted.

She’d trained for such pursuits but today her black high-heeled pumps worked against her. Steam and heat rose from the sidewalk in the sizzling June afternoon. With each step she feared her shoes would sink into the asphalt and swallow her whole. Might not be such a bad idea. Two blocks from the Boston courthouse, she considered flinging off the offensive shoes, but she couldn’t afford to lose ground.

She’d trusted them to keep her name private, and they trusted her to tell the truth. Neither got what they expected.

Taking a chance, she looked over her shoulder. Two men, one with a camera, bore down on her. The man with the camera snapped several shots. Crap! For years she’d been looking over her shoulder, fearful demons from the past would surface. The last thing she needed was her face splattered across the news and internet. Please don’t let them find me.

She dodged between two elderly ladies and a group of teenage girls. Sweat poured from her face. The dark blue dress clung to her body in the uncharacteristic Boston heatwave. She joined the teens, each carrying several shopping bags. Forcing herself to match the group’s slower pace, she ambled along close enough to be considered one of the group but far enough away not to create suspicion. When she reached the Granary Burying Ground, one of the oldest and most historical cemeteries in Boston, she angled past the remains of John Hancock and Paul Revere. Wouldn’t hurt to have a horse like Paul Revere’s right about now.

The camera guy crossed the street, but the teens stopped and climbed into a waiting car. Their departure left her exposed, giving her no choice but to sprint ahead.

The other man remained in hot pursuit. She remembered him from the courtroom gallery. He’d caught her attention with a salacious Joker-like grin. What did he want with her and what would he do if he caught her? Footsteps slapped against the hot pavement. The man was gaining ground. A zealous reporter or a man with more sinister intentions? She picked up her pace. No need right now to discern who paid his salary.

As she rounded the corner, she ran into a large crowd exiting a gray bus. People wearing black shirts with the words, Clark Family emblazoned in white across the front milled about as the driver directed them inside the hotel. She blended into the crowd but seconds later a hand clamped onto her shoulder. Her arms rose in a defensive position and she twisted to face The Joker.

The man shifted closer. You’re a wanted woman.

Too bad, jerk! She kneed his groin.

He bent in pain and howled. As he lowered his head, she struck the center of his neck.

People in the crowd turned and a few women even clapped. Way to go! one woman yelled. But she pushed through the throng and sped off.

Clearing the crowd, she approached a small diner a few yards away. A man standing near the entrance waved her in. This way!

She hesitated then trusted her instincts and darted inside. The odor of fresh bread and mozzarella cheese slammed her nose. She panted, out of breath from her unanticipated run, and raced to the back of the restaurant.

Get down. The man huffed out the command.

She ducked into a semi-circular booth with shiny red-leather seats. The tall back of the booth shielded her, but she peered up over the edge and witnessed the man zoom by the restaurant.

She rose then collapsed on the bench. Counting the sparse late afternoon lunch crowd, she blew out a breath, thankful to have so few witnesses. Eyeing the tall man, she smoothed her dress. Thanks.

He had dark hair and deep brown eyes. She spotted a tiny dimple pucker on one cheek when he instructed her to hide. Funny how she noticed such a mundane detail while fleeing for her life. Most normal people wouldn’t bother to go to such lengths to avoid being photographed, but she could never be considered normal.

I’m impressed with your skills. You took that man out with ease.

Her heart jumped and for a moment she considered racing out of the restaurant.

I saw you this morning, at the courthouse. The press can be relentless. He removed his dark gray suit jacket.

Her gaze zeroed in on the badge hanging around his neck. When he placed a hand on his hip, a metal disk glimmered from the silver chain. A raised gold letter F came into focus followed by a B and an I. The letters chilled her blood. Jumping up, she adjusted her purse, angled across her body. Are you following me?

His forehead knotted. What? No. I was at the courthouse to testify in a trial.

She cocked her head. You’re with the FBI? She scoffed. A badge can be faked. Giving the insignia a sweeping glance, she knew his credentials were most likely legitimate. Learning to recognize the difference between real and fake government credentials had been part of her training, but the bad guys were always improving their techniques. She stepped around him. I need to go.

Wait! He weaved between tables and peered out the large plate glass window. The coast is clear but to be safe, I’d wait a few minutes before leaving.

Biting the corner of her bottom lip, she nodded. I suppose you’re right. She positioned herself so she could view both the front and back of the restaurant. Their proximity in the rear of the eatery gave her a partial view of the kitchen and a man inside manning the grill. No way was she going to get back to work now. This unexpected flight cost her precious time. All she’d wanted was to complete her civic duty at the courthouse and return to her life.

She focused on the FBI agent. Did he come to her aid by chance or had he been placed in her path by design? Trust no one. The words were like a silent chant in her head and one she’d learned to live by.

A petite older woman with a dark bun peppered with streaks of gray approached. A red apron, stitched with the name Luigi’s in the center, wrapped around her amble bosom. Adam, who’s your friend?

Rosa, this is… Adam splayed his hands as he waited for her to answer.

She swallowed and uttered her second lie of the day. Carson Maxwell.

Chapter 2

Adam Forrester pushed through the glass doors of the FBI’s Violent Crimes squad. The seventh-floor offices contained large cubicles for each of the field agents and adjacent walled offices for supervisors and ASACs, Assistant Special Agents in Charge. Adam zigzagged past the team’s support personnel and headed for his desk next to floor-to-ceiling windows.

The June afternoon appeared tranquil as wispy clouds floated by with aimless curiosity. Adam had come to cherish the warm, beautiful days in Boston because the brutal winters lasted so long. He’d grown up in Galveston, Texas and Charleston, South Carolina, but lived in Los Angeles for several years before his move east. The transition had been a huge but necessary adjustment.

His best friend Ruben Garcia, sat across from him and judging from the array of files scattered across his desk, Adam surmised he hadn’t returned from lunch.

Thankful for a few minutes of quiet, Adam draped his suit jacket across his chair and powered up his computer. Seconds later the screen came to life and he clicked on his latest and most important case file. Settling into his blue desk chair, he grimaced. The chair settings had been altered. Ruben, the usual culprit, often snagged his chair to talk to Darcy who sat across from him. Adam made the chair adjustments and returned his attention to the screen.

After five years as an agent, Adam never allowed the sight of dead bodies, many in the most egregious conditions, to be a trivial piece of his job. These victims were real people with families. But this serial murder case held a particularly gruesome quality. As the photos of the woman they considered the killer’s first victim spread across his screen, Adam swallowed.

Victim one, a pretty twenty-four-year-old, owned a boutique in the small college town of Hazelden, Massachusetts. The petite dark-haired woman had a frozen shocked expression on her bloody face, as if someone had ended her life in mid-scream. Her mutilated body contained fifty-nine stab wounds, most resembling amoeba-like shapes deep and wide enough to view her internal organs. A long slash across her neck severed the carotid artery, staining her skin red initially before turning it a squalid gray color. As if the stab wounds weren’t enough, the killer had first encircled her neck with both hands and strangled her.

Adam studied her face. After her death, the killer had slathered garish makeup on her face, playing up her protruding eyes with wide swipes of red and bright-blue eye shadow. Even weirder, he dressed her in a Victorian blouse, and perched a red, pointy birthday hat on her head. Her body had been found inside a black trash bag at the door of an elderly woman a few towns away.

Each body had been presented with the same combination of strangulation and stab wounds, along with the gaudy makeup, blouse, and hat. All nine victims had been stuffed inside trash bags and found outside homes of single or widowed women. The criminal behavioral team, like everyone else, worked overtime analyzing the psychological profile of the killer, but so far no one specific had been identified.

Adam reviewed files on several more victims—all women, all blonde, about half of them married, all either entrepreneurs or having some type of job with leadership responsibility. None of the victims seemed to be connected and so far, the team could find no links between the victims and the women receiving the bodies.

Hey, didn’t think you’d be back until the status meeting. Ruben sauntered into the office, one side of his blue-striped dress shirt hanging outside his pants. He sipped from a large plastic cup filled with fizzy brown soda from Benny’s, a nearby deli.

Adam pivoted in his chair. My testimony went well but I was too wired to go home. Inhaling, he detected the distinct odor of onions. I thought you were giving up onion rings.

Ruben sniffed his hands, then swiped them through his thick, brown hair. I fell off the wagon. It’s been two months. Plus, with all the physical labor I’m doing renovating the garage apartment at my house, I figure I can absorb the extra calories.

Although inches below Adam’s six-foot-four frame, Ruben made up for his height with a stocky build. He leaned against Adam’s cubicle wall. While you were at the courthouse, did you catch a glimpse of the Tomlinson trial? The state’s star witness was on the stand all day. He slid his straw in and out of the cup, creating a squeaky sound.

For months, all of Boston had been consumed with the murder case against, Marvin Tomlinson, the city’s most revered professional baseball player. He’d been accused of murdering his bookie, to whom he owed thousands. A rumor also concluded that Tomlinson recently discovered that the bookie was in secret relationship with his girlfriend. Although aware of the general details of the case, Adam didn’t follow the day-to-day specifics. I ducked in for a few minutes. Just in time to see the state’s star witness take the stand but I had to leave before any of the testimony began.

They’ve been keeping the witness’s name out of the news. Who was it?

Adam shrugged. A woman. Carson.

Ruben held the straw still and hiked his brows. "You know her?"

Yes, I mean no, not really. I met her. Later. Adam groaned and picked up one of the paper files on his desk. Not a big deal, Ruben.

Setting the cup on the desk, Ruben crossed his arms. Hold up there. This chick made an impression on the proclaimed perpetual bachelor. I’ve known you since we were in training at Quantico, so don’t act like I can’t tell.

Adam smirked. Tell what? I helped her outrun a couple of reporters. Nothing else to it.

Ruben huffed out a laugh. So you played the super-agent role? She must have been hot.

Didn’t notice. A lie. The way her curvy hips moved slightly when she strode through the courtroom had caught his attention. She held her back straight and her head high but not in a snobbish manner. With an almost regal quality about her, Adam speculated she may have had previous ballet or dance training.

Like hell you didn’t. Ruben flashed a wide grin.

Okay, she was attractive, but I’m not interested.

So what happened?

With a sigh, Adam stood and glanced around the office. He peeked over the partition and stared down at Darcy’s collection of green plants, a jar of M&M’s, most of the time raided by Ruben, and the top of a dusty stack of old crime scene manuals.

Darcy’s not back, yet. Leta and Bill are out. Not sure where everyone else is but I think Harry is over there. Ruben jerked his head toward the other side of the room. He pulled up a chair and crossed his legs.

Adam reclaimed his seat. He wasn’t interested in sharing the story with the rest of the office, but Ruben wouldn’t leave without hearing something. I stopped in for lunch at Rosie’s. Just as I stepped outside I saw two men in pursuit of a woman. I recognized her as the woman from the Tomlinson trial. Before I could intervene, she stops and does a body lock takedown move on one of them. But the other guy is still coming for her, so I waved her inside Rosie’s. That’s it.

Ruben scooted back his chair and slapped Adam on the back. "Keep it to yourself. But if I had a Penthouse-worthy story involving a hot jujitsu babe, I’d tell you. Is she single?"

Don’t know but her relationship status is irrelevant since I’m not looking to get involved. Seek help, buddy. He’d admit to himself Carson’s takedown of the reporter had been a sweet move, and it was extremely sexy to see a gorgeous woman being a badass, but that’s as far as his interest went. Besides, he knew nothing about her. She spent five minutes in the ladies’ room, then waited another five at the booth while downing a glass of water. Then as quickly as she’d entered the restaurant, she thanked him and slipped away. Just as well.

Loud voices announced the entry of the rest of the team. Adam checked his watch. Meeting in five.

Ruben sauntered to Darcy’s desk and scooped out a handful of candy.

I saw that, Garcia. Darcy said from several feet away.

Why do you have candy on your desk if you don’t intend to share? Ruben popped several of the small candies into his mouth.

Sure as hell isn’t to satisfy your bottomless stomach. Darcy marched up to Ruben and gave him a playful punch in the gut.

Looking good, Forrester. You take up modeling in your spare time? Darcy always accented her short reddish-brown hair with a pair of glasses perched on top of her head. Khaki pants and a pale-blue oxford shirt completed her look.

Tossing a smirk at Darcy, Adam picked up his notebook. Just tell me you have something new on our killer.

Her expression hardened. Unfortunately not, but we’ll get him.

Adam’s cell phone buzzed. He plucked the phone from his desk and stared at the number.

Morena.

What the hell would she be calling me for?

Didn’t matter what she wanted. He wasn’t about to open a door he’d long ago closed.

Are you going to answer that? Ruben said.

Nope. Adam headed toward the conference room.

Chapter 3

The rush of the Atlantic Ocean smashing against the rocky shore energized Lance—for a moment. He stared out at the gray-blue surf, sea foam rolling on top like clumps of cotton balls. Boring. He stalked away from the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office and slumped into the buttery smooth leather of his coffee-colored desk chair. Although he loved Miami—the nightlife, the women, and the electric atmosphere, he hated the repetitive slamming of the ocean. However, the oceanside property commanded top dollar and boasted the ideal location for his new mansion, Sable Manor. The north wing had been completed but construction continued on the south side.

Are you ready? Dirk said. He was the only person who dared not knock or be announced by his assistant. Dirk swung open the office door and marched a few feet inside Lance’s inner sanctum.

Lance waved in his inherited head of security. Dirk had been with the family for years, having served under his father. Loyalty, second nature to Dirk, meant everything to Lance. Do you have anything?

Dirk opened the door and glided across the room as if he were a stealthy panther on the hunt. Lithe muscles and serious dark eyes punctuated the look of a seasoned killer. Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing, but I have my feelers out. We’ll find her. Too bad you didn’t want to focus on her after she first left.

I needed to lay low for a while. She managed to elude us for years, but she didn’t do this by herself. Who helped her? Lance tapped his fingers on the desk. We shouldn’t have put the task of finding her on the back burner, but I couldn’t risk anything until Mother and I were officially cleared of Dad’s death. That prick Attorney General took his sweet-ass time getting the FAA to rule his fall from the plane an accident.

And we’ve taken care of him. The hooker scandal obliterated his career. Dirk rubbed his chin stubble as he stood in a wide-leg stance, his large arms at the sides of his imposing six-foot-three frame.

Rising, Lance sniffed the briny ocean air and pursed his lips. Run down everyone who works for Seapine, even former employees. See if there’s anyone with a criminal background or tied to anyone with a criminal background. Did you check on her friends?

Dirk nodded. We’ve run these same scenarios countless times since she left only to come up empty. I found everyone she was associated with in California. No one has seen her.

I will find her and when I do there will be hell to pay. Mother and I didn’t jump from that airplane to be disparaged by my sister who apparently believes she’s much smarter than me. Lance slammed his fist on the desk.

On another note, I do have some news about Senator Hoffman. Turns out he’s a drunk. Passes out in his office at least a couple times a week. His staff covers for him. Dirk’s expression remained nondescript. In fact, Lance could never recall Dirk showing any emotion, happy or sad. Perhaps his even temper afforded him the clear thinking to be the best at what he did. Dirk never balked at getting his hands dirty, and Lance had plenty dirt for him to handle.

Lance leaned back in his chair. Wonderful.

I sent a video to your phone. I think this will put the Hoffman issue to rest.

Lance slid his phone from his pocket and seconds later a video materialized on the screen. The senator, his tie askew and his dress shirt hanging out of his pants, stumbled across the room and almost fell on to the sofa. Hoffman mumbled, and when the woman approached he yanked her on top of him. The senator appeared off balance, his hair in a wild mane and his voice slurred.

Dirk cleared his throat. Other women are lined up and ready to testify Hoffman treated them similarly, both sober and drunk.

Yes! Just what I need. Lance picked up his desk phone and punched in a number. Several seconds later a woman answered. Lance Sinclair for Senator Hoffman.

When the senator’s voice boomed through the phone Lance grinned.

What can I do for you, Lance?

I think you know what you can do for me, Senator. I need the trade agreement signed and delivered by next quarter. Lance tapped his fingers on his desk and waited.

Hoffman chuckled. I’m not in the habit of signing bills for the benefit of one person or corporation. I’m in this for the benefit of all.

Bullshit. You’re in the government business to build wealth from the highest bidder.

And what are you prepared to do for me, young man?

My father impressed upon me the importance of manners. I attended the best boarding schools Europe has to offer. In light of that, I’m prepared to say thank you. He rested his head on the back of the chair.

Hoffman emitted a louder chuckle. How nice of you. I believe this trade deal is not advantageous for the American people.

I disagree. Seapine currently employees 17,353 people in the United States alone. I believe these people value their jobs. How about you, Senator? Do you value your job?

You know I do. In fact, I’m up for reelection in the fall. Polling in my state shows my constituents aren’t brimming with interest or support for this bill.

Lance eyed the video on his phone then turned off the volume. Since when do you care about the support of your constituents? I’ve studied you and seen you go against the will of those you represent time and time again.

You underestimate me. I care deeply.

Hoffman’s voice had grown quiet and Lance sensed less confidence radiating through the phone.

You care deeply now since your lifeline is in jeopardy. I’ve seen the polling data, too. You’ve got a slim lead. Tucker is nipping at your heels. One mistake and you’re back to helping Skippy avoid jail time after a little too much to drink at the frat house.

You have a colorful way about you, Lance. He emitted a shallow breath. Now, if you don’t mind I have the people’s business to attend to.

Just one more thing. I received an interesting video today. It stars you, but you look a little unstable. At first, I was concerned for your health, then I saw you were being treated by Dr. Jack Daniels. I bet your precious constituents would love to watch this little movie. Now, who was your leading lady? Perhaps I should ask your wife who played that role.

You son of a bitch! Hoffman roared.

Sign the bill or every television station in your state, even in the country, will get a copy of this little vignette. Maybe you’ll even score an Oscar. Lance laughed. I believe the bill is up for a vote next week. I’m sure I’ll be pleased to see you cast the vote to put it over the top. Lance disconnected, rolled his neck, and stood. All my plans are working. Changing the entire operating structure, except some of those tried-and-true traditions, will work to our advantage. We operate under the radar and with a sleeker, more dedicated following. He pumped his fist. Hoffman will make the vote.

Sir, if I may ask. How long do you plan on staying in the States? Dirk folded his arms, his weapon on display.

Although we got the whole airplane incident smoothed over, I’d love to return to Switzerland on a permanent basis. With Ivan’s death ruled accidental, he and his mother, Pia, were free to do as they pleased. Lance had used his father’s connections and doubled down on adding to his own realm of influence. Now, that I have Seapine and The Order right where I want them, I can focus on finding Sloane. Until then, I’ll run the business from here. However, I do have an important meeting in Belgium soon. I’ll let you know when the details are confirmed.

I’m not questioning your plans; I need to establish security protocols on a long-term basis.

I appreciate your forward thinking. In terms of my current needs, I’m going to need a room, reinforced, no internet. I don’t want it to look like a cell, but I definitely want it to feel like one. You have an unlimited budget. I want my sister to feel the pain of her disloyalty. I am Grand Commander now. I have definite plans for the organization. Sloane will be the first sacrifice under my new methodology. He stared out at the surf. I will find you, Sloane, and when I do, you will regret every single day you’ve been gone.

Chapter 4

Three loud whacks on the sturdy, gray mat signaled Carson’s sparring partner, Jane, had submitted. Carson released her armbar hold and jumped up. Tightening the brown belt around her white gi, she bowed before exiting the mat. Wiping a towel across her forehead, she was thrilled the lightweight kimono absorbed most of the perspiration incurred from the thirty-minute sparring session. Although she hadn’t slept much after her terrifying flight from reporters the previous day, she worked hard to maintain her usual vigor on the mat.

The gym, a town over from her house in Luffton, had been like her second home. One of her first tasks when arriving in Boston had been to find a gym to continue her training. Now a brown belt, one below a black, Carson never got cocky with her abilities. Like many women in the martial arts, Carson wanted the skills to protect herself. However, far different than most women, she could one day have a well-trained army after her.

Great spar session, Carson. Jane shot water into her mouth from the spout of her bottle.

I agree. Thanks for the workout. Carson scooped up her bag and disappeared into the locker room. Seconds later, she emerged wearing bicycle shorts, a red Boston Research shirt, and holding her favorite black helmet. Waving to Jane and a few others, she exited the gym and climbed on her bike for the eight-mile ride home.

As her tired muscles propelled the bike forward, Carson took in her surroundings. When she arrived at the sixth traffic light, she sighed. Home in twenty minutes. She cycled past the park, eyeing the five benches on the east side near the playground. Fresh paint had perked the once dull green benches into brighter accompaniments to the new playground equipment the city had installed a few months ago.

Luffton’s town square splayed out in iconic New England flair, although the scenery reminded Carson of the villages of Switzerland where she spent much of her youth. Angling the bike along the path, she cycled pass luscious green grass basking in the noonday heat, multicolored flowers settled in huge planters, and a beautiful wooden gazebo in the center. As a nod to the past, decades ago they’d erected statues of serious-faced Revolutionary War heroes.

A white steepled church with red double doors at the top of a set of wide steps always made Carson smile. The day she moved in she happened upon a wedding at the church. When the bride and groom burst through the red doors, the wedding party and their guests had lined the stairs to greet the newly married couple. The scene had been so simple, and one probably repeated thousands of times at the church, yet such an event stood out of reach for her.

A block away, she angled the bike onto her street and inhaled the sweet, earthy scent of fresh-mowed grass. As she passed her neighbor, she waved while he cut the engine of his push mower.

The quiet, middle-class neighborhood featured a mix of colonial, Cape Cod, and bungalow-style homes, each with a unique flavor. Carson hated the cookie-cutter style of some of the newer developments and instead opted for a three-bedroom Cape Cod a half hours’ drive from the hospital. She’d grown up in mansions with servants and groundskeepers and this house reminded her nothing of her life as Sloane Sinclair.

Five houses from hers, a van sped up behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder yielded little information as to who piloted the vehicle. She sped up. Then the van sped up. The roar of the vehicle’s motor sounded in her ear.

She steered onto the sidewalk and the van slowed next her.

A man with a camera leaned out. Carson!

How the hell had they found me?

The judge had imposed a gag order so even if she wanted to speak with the press, she couldn’t. Evidently, the order didn’t preclude photographers from snapping her picture. With her jaw set, she shifted the handlebars to the right. She raced in between two houses, eyeing the uneven ground for ditches which could send her flying. The back yard of her house loomed ahead. She slowed, jumping off the bike before the wheels came to a stop. Drawing her Sig Sauer from her hip holster, she scanned the area before flipping open a hidden key panel in a nearby tree stump. After she punched in a code, a popping sound indicated the back gate had unlocked. Once she and her bike were inside her yard with the gate locked, she expelled a sigh.

They were only reporters. I’m still safe.

With her weapon still in hand, she parked her bike inside the garage and crept inside the house. The security system, custom made for her, had not been tripped, which only added a small measure of calm to her racing pulse.

She beelined for her bedroom and whipped open the closet door. The large closet allowed her several steps inside before she stopped at the far wall. Inside the third shelf along the left side of the wall, she tapped on the bottom and punched a button. The wall slid open revealing another room without windows.

Carson closed the door and sank into the chair in front of one of two computers. Four monitors mounted on the wall allowed her views of various points surrounding the exterior of her house. She reviewed footage of the past day, noting two instances of people at her front door. A man and a woman, about thirty minutes apart, rang the doorbell. After receiving no answer, they both left in