Damon unfolded the paper.

I stepped closer, looking over his arm.

It was a high-resolution photograph.

It showed Leo, wearing his blue winter coat, playing with a toy shovel in our backyard garden.

The photo had been taken from an elevated angle, likely from the roof of the building across the street.

Beneath the photograph was a neatly typed table.

*08:30 AM – Leo eats breakfast in the sunroom.*

*10:15 AM – Nora reads to Leo in the library.*

*01:30 PM – Nap time in the nursery.*

*03:45 PM – Outdoor play near the east wall.*

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle a scream.

The details were perfect.

They knew our exact movements inside the locked gates of this estate.

They knew when he slept, when he played, and when he was alone.

“Damon,” I whispered, the word barely escaping my throat.

Damon’s face went completely pale, his eyes wide with a cold, silent rage.

His fingers crumpled the edges of the paper.

“Harris,” Damon said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Lock down the perimeter.”

“Nobody goes in or out.”