On the screen, the chat thread was scrolling so fast the names were a blur of white text.

A user named *BakingMom88* wrote: “We see him. He is standing in the pantry.”

Another user, *GridWatcher*, posted a static image link.

I tapped it with my thumb.

It was a grainy, high-contrast screenshot from the state highway department’s intersection camera on Route 9.

A silver sedan was visible under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, parked slightly off the shoulder near the old barn.

“They found your car,” I told him.

Julian stopped.

The tip of his pocket knife lowered slightly, the blade catching the cold light from the hallway.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The rental,” I said. “The one you parked behind the old barn down the road.”

The chat bubbled with new messages.

“Checked the plate,” wrote *LocalEye*. “It’s a rental from the regional airport. Reported the plate and VIN to the state police five minutes ago.”

Julian’s eyes widened.

His knuckles turned white around the wooden handle of the knife.

From the kitchen, I heard the heavy, slow footsteps of Detective Harris.