Red didn’t want an escort.

  She made that very clear the second they left the crime scene.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, arms crossed as she sat stiffly in the backseat of Peter’s cruiser. “You guys act like I haven’t been dealing with stuff like this for years.”

  “You haven’t,” Hunter said flatly from the passenger seat.

  Red scoffed. “Excuse me?”

  Hunter turned in his seat, leveling her with a look. “You think you’ve been playing detective all this time, but this isn’t some deep dive on your blog, Red. This isn’t a theory. The Wolf was in that ballroom. You danced with him. He put a knife to Cindy’s throat. You really think he’s just going to walk away and call it a night?”

  Red clenched her jaw but didn’t back down. “I’ve been covering this for years. If I start hiding now, then he wins. I’m not letting some psycho dictate my life—”

  “He already is,” Peter said, his voice tight as he kept his eyes on the road. “You don’t get it, do you? We found your name, your articles, your stories inside that house. He’s been watching you. Studying you. The only reason you’re still standing here is because he wants you to be.”

  That made Red go quiet.

  Just for a second.

  Then she rolled her eyes and leaned back against the seat. “Fine. Walk me up. Then I’m staying in my apartment. Alone.”

  Neither Hunter nor Peter responded, but the look they exchanged said it all.

  Peter pulled up outside Red’s building, killing the engine.

  The neighborhood was quiet at this hour, streetlights buzzing faintly overhead.

  Red reached for the door handle, but Peter spoke first.

  “We go in first.”

  Red huffed loudly. “Oh for—”

  “We go in first.”

  Hunter’s voice left no room for argument.

  Red threw up her hands. “Fine. Be my guest.”

  Peter didn’t wait. He stepped out first, scanning the street as he made his way to the entrance. Red followed, grumbling under her breath, while Hunter trailed behind.

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  They climbed the stairs, Peter moving just a little too fast, like something was nagging at him.

  And then—he stopped.

  Red nearly bumped into him. “What now?”

  Peter didn’t answer. His whole body had gone rigid.

  Hunter immediately reached for his gun.

  Red frowned, stepping to the side—and then she saw it.

  Her apartment door was open.

  Just slightly.

  Barely noticeable.

  But just enough to tell them someone had been there.

  Red stopped breathing for a second.

  She had locked that door.

  Peter immediately drew his gun.

  “Stay behind me,” he ordered, voice low.

  For once, Red didn’t argue.

  The smell hit first.

  It wasn’t the stench of death like at the house.

  No, this was something different.

  Something rancid. Coppery. Fresh.

  Peter moved in first, sweeping the apartment with his gun up, clearing each corner.

  Then Red stepped inside.

  And froze.

  Her apartment had been destroyed.

  Drawers overturned. Papers scattered. Her couch slashed open. Books thrown from the shelves.

  Her Wall of Weird—the years of research, articles, case notes, maps, and theories—was completely gone.

  Shredded. Burned in the sink. Every single connection she had made about the Wolf had been erased.

  Her breath came fast.

  He had been here.

  He had gone through everything.

  Her eyes darted around the wreckage, heart hammering in her chest—and then she saw the wall.

  Right where her investigation board had once been, there was a single mark left behind.

  A bloody paw print.

  Large. Smudged.

  Still dripping.

  Red took a step back.

  The Wolf had been here.

  Minutes ago.

  They had just missed him.

  Peter let out a slow, controlled breath, holstering his gun.

  “This is why Hunter and I were jumpy,” he muttered.

  Red barely registered his voice.

  She was still staring at the bloody print on the wall.

  He had been in her home. Moving through her things. Erasing her work.

  Watching her.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed.

  Peter turned to her. “Pack a bag.”

  Red blinked. “What?”

  “You’re not staying here.” His tone left no room for argument.

  Red shook her head. “I’m not—”

  “He was just here.” Peter’s voice rose slightly, frustrated. “You don’t get it? He’s playing with you. Next time, he won’t leave a message. Next time, he’ll be waiting.”

  Red opened her mouth to fight back.

  But then she looked at the bloody paw print again.

  And felt something she never wanted to admit.

  Fear.

  The kind that settled deep.

  The kind that didn’t let go.

  Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

  Peter stepped closer.

  “Come on,” he said, softer this time. “We’re going to the station. It’s the safest place for you.”

  For once, Red didn’t have a smart remark.

  She just nodded.

  And let Peter take her away.