The metal building smelled different now.
Not smoke.
Not gasoline.
Stale air.
Closed space.
Fear.
Jack paced the length of the room for nearly an hour after locking the door behind them. His movements were sharper now. Less measured. He kept glancing at the burner phone on the table, even though he had already snapped the SIM card in half.
"They're digging," he muttered. "They'll hit the house."
Sarah said nothing.
He turned suddenly toward her.
"You knew that, didn't you?"
She held his gaze carefully.
"I knew they wouldn't stop."
He stepped closer.
"They wouldn't have escalated if you hadn't resisted."
"I didn't resist."
"You left."
Silence.
He ran a hand through his hair — harder than before. His breathing wasn't steady anymore. The careful calculation he'd maintained at the cabin had thinned into agitation.
"They're inside my house right now," he said suddenly.
She didn't ask how he knew.
Because he didn't.
He just felt it.
Back in Branson, the garage door of Jack's home had been pried open under warrant authority.
Inside, it looked like any other garage.
Tool bench.
Lawn equipment.
Storage bins.
But one of the storage bins was heavier than expected.
"Forensics," Brian said quietly.
They opened it.
Inside:
A second set of license plates.
Vehicle identification stickers.
A compact surveillance camera.
Women's jewelry — mismatched, not boxed, not stored carefully. Collected.
Brian's jaw tightened.
"Catalog everything."
Another officer called out from the workbench.
"Detective."
Brian walked over.
Inside a locked drawer were printed restraining reports — copies of complaints filed in different counties over the past several years.
Different names.
Different towns.
But the same behavioral description.
Aggressive.
Obsessive.
Controlling.
All complaints withdrawn.
All charges dismissed.
And all within driving distance of the properties circled on the map.
The Chief stepped beside him.
"He's been operating longer than we thought."
"Yes."
Brian's mind shifted from rescue to pattern.
"This isn't an isolated escalation."
"No."
"It's evolution."
Inside the metal structure, Jack stopped pacing.
He stared at Sarah.
"You smell it?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked.
"What?"
"You."
Her stomach tightened.
He stepped closer.
The air between them was tense, electric.
"You smell like smoke," he continued. "Like that place."
"I was in a fire."
"You're not clean."
She swallowed.
His eyes sharpened.
"Your appearance right now is not attractive," he said flatly. "You're filthy. Disgusting. You need to be cleaned."
Her pulse spiked.
This wasn't a concern.
It was control.
He turned abruptly and walked into the adjoining room.
She heard the faucet running.
Water.
Filling.
Her breathing grew shallow.
He returned and grabbed her arm.
"Stand."
She hesitated.
His grip tightened instantly.
"I said stand."
She forced herself up.
"Walk with me," he said. "Don't fight. Don't try anything foolish. There will be consequences."
Her legs felt weak as he led her into the small bathroom area — concrete floor, clawfoot tub against the wall, old plumbing but functional.
Steam rose faintly from the tub.
Warm water.
He closed the door behind them.
Locked it.
She stepped back instinctively.
"Take them off," he said.
Her chest tightened.
She didn't move.
His jaw hardened.
"I'm not asking."
Her fingers trembled as she struggled against the tape binding her wrists.
He cut it with a knife — not gently.
She folded inward, arms instinctively crossing over her chest.
Tears blurred her vision.
"This is necessary," he said.
"For what?"
"For order."
She couldn't stop shaking.
"Get in."
Her body felt numb as she stepped into the tub.
The water was warm.
Too warm.
She lowered herself slowly, staring at him through tears.
He crouched beside the tub.
"See? That's better."
His hand dipped into the water.
He reached for a bar of soap from the sink.
And then he began washing her.
Not gently.
Not tenderly.
Methodically.
Like he was cleaning something that belonged to him.
She flinched when his hands moved over her skin.
Her breath hitched involuntarily.
"Stop reacting like that," he said sharply.
She turned her face away.
He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.
"You don't get to act repulsed," he said quietly. "You don't get to reject care."
"It's not care," she whispered.
His eyes darkened.
"I am fixing what they damaged."
His hands moved again, slow, deliberate, possessive.
When she winced, he noticed.
"You don't like it when I touch you."
She said nothing.
"You will."
Her heart slammed violently.
He leaned closer.
"You will understand."
Tears slid silently down her face.
He didn't stop.
He wasn't acting like a cop anymore.
He wasn't calculating angles or surveillance.
He was unraveling.
Projecting ownership.
Rewriting reality in real time.
When he finally stepped back, satisfied, he handed her a towel.
"You see?" he said calmly. "Better."
She wrapped the towel tightly around herself, folding it inward on the floor.
He watched her for a long moment.
Then turned away.
"Next time," he added softly, "don't let yourself deteriorate."
Back at the hospital, Molly sat alone after Brian left.
The room felt too quiet.
Too sterile.
Her mind replayed the explosion.
The smoke.
Sarah screaming.
She wasn't tactical.
She wasn't strategic.
She was just a sister who had followed a man to a lake.
And now her sister was gone.
Her phone buzzed.
A news alert.
"Detective Suspected in Multi-State Disappearances."
Her hands began shaking.
This was bigger than she thought.
And Sarah was alone with him.
Back in the garage, another discovery emerged.
Hidden beneath the workbench flooring was a sealed plastic container.
Inside were personal items.
Hair ties.
A cracked phone.
A student ID.
The name matched a missing person report from two years ago.
Brian stared at it.
"He's escalating," the Chief said quietly.
"No," Brian replied.
"He's accelerating."
And somewhere within that tightening radius —
Jack stood over Sarah as she sat wrapped in a towel.
Clean.
Controlled.
And completely under his authority.
At least, in his mind.
But panic was creeping in now.
And panic made men make mistakes.