The attic was colder now.
Not by temperature—by presence. It felt like the mont I spotted those boxes, sothing had retreated. Not the intruder, no. Sothing else. Like the space itself had closed around its secret and dared to open it.
The boxes were stacked with awkward symtry. Three rows, four columns, taped together with labels scratched off or sared with age. Nothing on the outside scread significance—until I opened the first one.
Polaroids.
Not digital prints, not files. Instant film. Dozens of them, tucked neatly in little sleeves, dated in red marker. Each one stamped in the corner with a ti I couldn’t ignore.
I pulled the first from the front.
Jacob. Asleep. On his side. One arm hanging off the bed.
Lea. In the background. In her pajamas. Mouth open slightly in a child’s careless dream.
The date? A week ago.
The second one?
Sa angle. Slightly closer. Jacob’s mouth was open this ti.
The third?
Lea. Alone now. Shot through the crack of her door. Her nightlight was on. The photo had a glare—but her outline was sharp. The tistamp was from four days ago.
I kept flipping through them.
Each one docunted sothing that shouldn’t have been seen. Private monts. Sleeping postures. A torn blanket. A forgotten stuffed animal fallen to the floor. Always with the sa sharp focus, the sa deliberate spacing. As if the photographer was cataloging them. As if they were studying sothing.
Or soone.
My pulse slowed.
My fingers were trembling now.
Number twelve had Jacob’s eyes half-open. Not in fear. Just mid-blink, caught between sleep cycles. And the picture was taken from less than four feet away.
He’d never even stirred.
By the ti I hit picture twenty, my stomach had begun to knot. Twenty-five was worse. That one showed the corner of the kitchen, a late-night glass of water, Jacob shirtless in the background, reaching for a drawer.
This one had no tistamp.
I flipped faster.
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. A broken clock. A half-drunk juice box.
Each one told less about the family and more about the person behind the lens. Their patience. Their silence. Their obsession.
Picture forty-eight?
Lea.
Curled into a corner of her bed.
Eyes open.
Staring directly at the cara.
Not in fear.
Just in knowing.
...
Did she know soone was watching her? That so...monster was in the room with her?
I stopped there.
The photo crinkled slightly as I held it too long.
Grant climbed into the attic behind with a grunt, flashlight beam swinging to catch the dust clouds I’d stirred.
He looked over my shoulder.
"...What the hell is all that?"
"Evidence," I muttered. I handed him the top stack. "Polaroids. All of Jacob and Lea. All taken from inside the apartnt. Different days. Different angles."
He cursed quietly. "You sure they’re real?"
"They’re not manipulated, if that’s what you an," I said. "Polaroids are hard to fake, and these aren’t prints—they’re originals. And that one—" I pointed to the photo of Lea staring into the cara. "—That one tells we’re behind. Not just in ti. In intent."
Grant took the box, his jaw tight.
"Scan them for fingerprints," I added. "If the suspect touched the film directly, there’s a chance."
"And if he wore gloves?"
"Then we’re screwed."
Grant nodded grimly. "Prints are unlikely. Guy’s careful."
"Not careful enough to hide this stash," I said. "He was interrupted. The ladder was halfway down. The last photo’s fresh—within the last day."
"You think he was about to move them?"
"I think he was about to escalate."
I stood and handed him the rest. "Catalog them. If the tistamps are real, we can track patterns. But more importantly—figure out when the break-ins started. That tells us how long they’ve been targeted."
Grant took the boxes carefully. "What about Jacob?"
"He’ll need protection," I said. "No debate. Witness relocation if we can swing it. A fresh unit, new ID tags. The departnt’s going to have no choice now."
Grant paused at the hatch. "You think they’ll actually approve it?"
"I’ll force them to. Not to ntion that they can’t ignore a threat this big. I an what are they going to say? ’Yeah soone might be in your attic taking pictures of you, but the mountain of proof simply isn’t enough for a big investigation.’"
When I erged from the attic, Jacob was seated on the floor, arms wrapped around Lea. She was talking softly about her tablet ga, completely unaware of the photos upstairs.
Good.
Jacob looked up at , eyes hollow. "What did you find?"
"Enough," I said. "You’ll be moved. We’ll start the paperwork. You won’t stay here another night."
He looked like he wanted to cry again, but nothing ca.
"I left her," he said, voice cracking. "I left her and he was right above—"
"You didn’t know."
"That doesn’t matter."
"It does now," I said, kneeling. "Because now you do."
I let Grant explain the logistics—tilines, ergency contacts, protective detail. I stepped away, coat catching the slight morning wind that pushed through the broken seal of the stairwell.
I needed a breath.
But I didn’t take one.
Instead, I moved around the side of the building, toward the rear alley where the fire escape ended and a narrow patch of soil t the concrete lot.
The attic window was above now.
Three floors.
High enough to twist a knee on landing if you weren’t careful. Or to break sothing if you missed your angle.
I crouched.
Eyes scanning the ground.
Dirt. Gravel. Cracked patches of sidewalk. Nothing at first.
But then—
There.
A depression in the soil, just at the edge of the treeline. Soft. Too soft for an alley that hadn’t seen rain in five days.
I brushed it with my gloved hand.
Heel mark. Sharp pressure point at the toe. Soone had landed here. Hard.
I leaned down. asured the size with my palm.
Average foot. Male. Standard tread pattern.
But fresh.
"Not careful enough," I whispered.
Because whoever this was—they were getting close.
Too close.
And now they were leaving traces.
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