Chapter 17
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The intake process for Nora and her son, Sam, took the better part of the morning. Amy sat with them for hours behind the closed, soundproof doors of the private wing, offering them a hot meal, clean clothes, and the absolute assurance that no one could breach our gates without going through my security team first.
While Amy handled the emotional triage, I was focused on the perimeter.
I sat in the security control room alongside Mike, staring at the bank of high-definition monitors that covered every angle of our property. The long, winding driveway leading up to our estate was heavily wooded and equipped with motion sensors.
"She walked two miles," I noted, watching the playback footage of Nora stumbling up the road. "Which means she ditched a car, or she was dropped off. Did we catch any vehicle activity on the county highway cameras before she appeared?"
Mike pulled up the footage from the outer perimeter camera positioned near the main road intersection.
"Right here," Mike said, pausing the video and zooming in. "About twenty minutes before she walked up to our gates. A black, heavily tinted SUV idled at the crossroads for nearly ten minutes. It didn't turn down our road, but it was definitely watching the entrance."
"Can you pull a plate?" I asked, a cold knot tightening in my stomach.
"No plates," Mike shook his head. "They were either removed or covered. The vehicle eventually pulled a U-turn and headed back toward Nashville."
I leaned back in the chair, running a hand through my hair. The monsters we dealt with at the sanctuary were usually local abusers—cowards who relied on intimidation but lacked real resources. A black, untraceable SUV running surveillance meant we were dealing with someone entirely different.
The door to the control room opened quietly, and Amy stepped inside. She looked exhausted, carrying the heavy emotional weight of Nora's story, but her eyes burned with a fierce, protective light.
"Did she tell you who she is running from?" I asked, turning my chair to face my wife.
"She did," Amy sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nora's husband is Marcus Thorne. He's a prominent real estate developer in Nashville, but Nora says his legitimate businesses are just a front. He has deep ties to organized crime, massive wealth, and half the local judges on his payroll."
"Thorne," I repeated, the name sounding vaguely familiar from local news broadcasts. "If he has that kind of reach, he isn't going to let her just walk away. He views her as property."
"He told her that if she ever tried to leave, he would take Sam and make sure she was never found," Amy whispered, a shudder running through her shoulders. "Connor, she is terrified. She thinks bringing her here has put a target on our backs."
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I stood up and wrapped my arms around Amy, holding her tightly.
"Our backs can handle the target," I promised her, kissing her forehead. "We built this place for exactly this reason. Thorne might own Nashville, but he doesn't own Franklin. And he certainly doesn't own us."
