INTERLUDE: HAROLD
336 Words
The bourbon swirled lazily in his glass, the ice long melted.
Harold Jones sat alone in his study, fingers steepled, eyes locked on the glowing monitor across the room. The security feed cycled calmly through views of his house: the front gate, the long driveway, the quiet hallway just outside his office.
Perfect.
Controlled.
As it should be.
But something had shifted.
He could feel it in the air—like the sharp static just before lightning cracks. A low, slow pressure building under the skin. The kind that made predators lift their heads just before the kill.
He didn’t know what yet.
But something was watching.
Something was coming.
---
The news of Scarlett’s release had reached him two days before it went public.
Of course it had. He still had contacts. Strings to pull. People who owed him their pensions, their silence, their loyalty.
They’d asked if he wanted her monitored.
He said no.
Let her feel free, he’d told them.
Let her believe she was a ghost returned to life.
But now?
Now he wasn’t so sure.
---
He picked up the old photograph on his desk—the one he kept buried under tax reports and fake charity receipts. It was worn at the edges. Faded. A family photo.
His first family.
Scarlett had been twelve in it. Staring straight into the lens like she could already see what he was.
She’d always been a problem.
Too smart.
Too loud.
Too aware.
And now she was free.
A problem uncontained.
---
Harold downed the last of the bourbon.
Then rose from his chair, walked to the wall safe behind his bookshelf, and keyed in the code with steady hands.
Inside: a gun. A burner phone. A locked folder with her name still printed across it in thick black ink.
SCARLETT JONES.
He ran a finger across it, slow.
"Let’s see how far the little monster thinks she can go."
And then he smiled.
The kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
- Writer
