The First Strike
Night had settled over the Carter residence like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Inside, the house was deceptively calm. Amara checked the locks for the fifth time, her fingers lingering over the cool metal of the deadbolt, the tension in her shoulders tight enough to ache. Michael paced near the living room, his jaw clenched, muttering to himself about misplaced keys, shifted furniture, and minor disturbances he could not explain. The children slept, blissfully unaware of the storm creeping closer. Klay Kingston had spent weeks—months—mapping their every movement, cataloging their habits, and calculating every reaction. Now, he was ready to move from shadow to action. He slipped through the side gate with the same silent precision he had honed over years of planning. His presence was a wh
Great novels start here
- Writer
