ISABELLE POV
The blood won't wash off.
Isabelle scrubs her hands under cold water at 3:47 AM, watching her skin turn red from the friction. The blood isn't real. It never is. But her brain hasn't learned the difference between nightmare and memory yet.
Six months in this house. Six months of counting the same twelve bars on her bedroom window every morning. Six months of pretending she's a person instead of a piece of evidence wrapped in fear.
The nightmare is always the same. She's running through the warehouse. Her shoes echo on concrete. Behind her, footsteps are getting closer. She turns a corner and sees the man on his knees. She sees the gun. She sees the shooter's face.
Then the bang.
Then blood everywhere, including on her hands even though she was twenty feet away when it happened.
She dries her hands on the kitchen towel and tries to remember how to breathe normally. The safe house is quiet except for the murmur of voices from the living room. Agent Morrison and Agent Chen are switching shifts. She can hear the familiar ritual of coffee being poured, paperwork being signed, normalcy being performed by people who get to leave this place when their shift ends.
Isabelle doesn't get to leave.
She opens the refrigerator and stares at the contents without seeing them. Milk. Eggs. Yogurt that's probably expired. Food that federal agents buy for her because she's not allowed to go shopping. Not allowed to go anywhere. Not allowed to exist outside these walls.
"Miss Gray?"
She jumps so hard she nearly drops the refrigerator door. Agent Morrison stands in the kitchen doorway, his expression carefully neutral. He's seen her jump at shadows enough times that he doesn't comment anymore.
"Just getting water," she says. Her voice sounds small. Everything about her feels small these days.
"Can't sleep?"
She shakes her head. Sleeping means nightmares. Staying awake means fear. There's no good option.
Morrison fills a glass with water and hands it to her. His kindness makes her throat tight. She's forgotten what kindness feels like when it's not mixed with pity.
"Four more weeks," he says quietly. "Then you testify and this part is over."
This part. Like there's another part waiting that won't involve looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. Like testifying against the Russo crime family won't put a permanent target on her back.
She nods because that's easier than explaining that nothing will ever be over. The trial might end. Her fear won't.
Morrison returns to the living room. Isabelle drinks the water she doesn't want and tries not to think about the fact that in four weeks, she'll stand in a courtroom and point at the man who murdered someone right in front of her. She'll say his name. Marco Russo. She'll describe his face, his stance, the way he pulled the trigger without hesitation.
She's memorized every detail. The prosecution made sure of that. They showed her photos until his face was burned into her brain. They played the warehouse security footage until she could recite the timeline in her sleep.
They need her to be perfect on that witness stand. They need her to be certain.
She is certain. She saw what she saw.
But certainty doesn't make her less terrified.
The kitchen window faces the driveway. Isabelle stands there holding her empty glass, watching the streetlight cast shadows across the yard. The bars on the window create a grid pattern. She used to hate those bars. Now they feel necessary, like the only thing standing between her and the people who want her dead.
Headlights appear at the end of the driveway.
Her heart rate spikes immediately. She tells herself it's just the new shift arriving. Morrison mentioned something about a schedule change. New officer taking over overnight protection.
The SUV pulls up slowly. Professional. Controlled. Exactly like every other shift change she's witnessed in six months.
But something feels wrong.
Isabelle can't explain it. Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's the paranoia that comes from spending half a year waiting for someone to break through the protections and finish what the Russo family started. Maybe it's nothing.
The driver's door opens.
A man steps out. Tall. Dark jacket. Federal credentials clipped to his belt. Everything looks correct. Everything looks routine.
He turns toward the house.
The streetlight catches his face.
Isabelle's glass slips from her hand and shatters on the kitchen floor.
She knows that face.
She's seen it in photos. In security footage. In the lineup where she pointed him out and said, "That's him. That's the shooter."
Marco Russo is walking up to her safe house like he belongs here.
Her brain can't process what she's seeing. This has to be another nightmare. She's still asleep. She's still trapped in the recurring dream where the killer finds her and finishes what he started.
But the broken glass cutting into her bare foot is real. The pain is real.
Morrison opens the front door. She can hear voices. Professional greetings. Paperwork being exchanged.
They're letting him in.
They're letting the man she's supposed to testify against walk right into the house where she's supposed to be protected.
Isabelle backs away from the window. Her foot leaves bloody prints on the linoleum. She should run. She should scream. She should do something other than stand here frozen while the nightmare becomes real.
The front door closes.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Morrison appears in the kitchen doorway. Behind him stands Marco Russo, wearing a federal officer's uniform and a professional smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Miss Gray, this is Detective Russo," Morrison says. "He'll be taking over your protection detail starting tonight. I'll leave you two to get acquainted."
Isabelle stares at the man who murdered someone in front of her. The man she identified in a police lineup. The man whose family has a price on her head.
He's supposed to protect her.
Instead, she knows exactly why he's here.
He's here to make sure she never makes it to that witness stand.
Marco Russo meets her eyes. Something passes between them in that moment. Recognition. Understanding. The acknowledgment that they both know exactly what this is.
"Miss Gray," he says. His voice is smooth. Calm. Completely wrong. "I understand you've had a difficult few months. I want you to know that you're safe now."
The lie is so beautiful it almost sounds true.
Morrison leaves. The front door closes. The SUV drives away.
And Isabelle is alone in the safe house with the man who's supposed to be in prison.