"This isn't what? Your area of expertise? Because investigating dangerous situations happens to be mine." I pull my notebook from my bag, flip to the timeline I've been building. "You want to know what I've learned? Your mystery stalker doesn't just follow patterns—it adapts them. Look."
I trace the dates with my finger. "1990, three disappearances in spring. 1997, two in late summer. 2004, four in autumn, butspread over two months instead of clustered." I look up at him. "It's learning from your responses. Getting smarter."
He sets down the radio, attention fully focused now.
"So hiding me doesn't solve the problem. It just teaches this thing that threatening journalists makes werewolves retreat." I flip to another page. "But if we use me as bait—controlled bait, with backup and strategy—we might actually catch it."
"Absolutely not."
"Why? Because I'm human? Because I'm not pack?" I lean forward. "Or because you still think protection means keeping me ignorant and out of the way?"
"Because if something happens to you…"
"Then we make sure nothing happens to me. With planning. With backup. With me knowing exactly what I'm walking into instead of stumbling around blind." I point to the map. "Where does it usually strike?"
He hesitates, then marks a trail junction with reluctant precision.
"How does it approach? What time of day? What triggers an attack versus surveillance?" I'm already taking notes. "Does it hunt alone or with others? How fast can it move? What are its weaknesses?"
"Ellie…"
"These aren't rhetorical questions, Caleb. If you want me safe, give me information. If you want me protected, make me part of the plan." I close the notebook with a sharp snap. "Because I'm not hiding in a safe house while this thing regroups and figures out a better hunting strategy."
He studies me in silence, something shifting in his expression.
"You're serious about this."
“I’m serious about not disappearing,” I say.
“You think that’s what I’m asking you to do?”
“I think it’s what everyone asks eventually,” I reply. “Just be quieter. Safer. Somewhere else.”
He exhales slowly. “I don’t want you erased.”
“Then don’t erase my choices.”
Silence stretches. Not hostile. Evaluative.
“If we do this,” he says finally, “it’s not heroics. It’s preparation. Redundancies. Failsafes.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to survive.”
"Dead serious." I meet his gaze steadily. "Danger I can see and prepare for is manageable. Danger that gets handled around me while I sit in the dark? That's just delayed helplessness."
The radio crackles again. This time, he doesn't reach for it.
The map becomes our battleground, but this time we're fighting on the same side. I spread my research alongside his intelligence reports, watching him absorb my timeline without interrupting to correct or redirect.
"Your pattern analysis is more complete than ours." He traces my red lines with one finger. "We've been tracking individual incidents. You've been tracking the system."
"Because I wasn't trying to protect anyone from the truth." The words come out sharper than I intend, but he doesn't flinch.
"Fair point." He pulls out a folder I haven't seen before. "Pack surveillance logs for the past month. Every sighting, every disturbance. Cross-reference them with your investigation timeline."
I scan the reports, noting dates and locations. "It's been following my exact route. Every interview, every archive visit."
"Learning what you know before you know it yourself."