Obsessed

Chapter 30

The tip came in just before lunch.

A man matching Elise Smith’s description had been spotted in a quiet suburban neighborhood, seen entering a yellow house with blue shutters and a matching blue door. Mark and Jackson were already halfway out of their chairs when the report finished coming through dispatch.

Mark grabbed his vest and holstered his weapon, already barking to Jackson, “Let’s move. I don’t want to lose him.”

The soft buzz of fluorescent lights overhead did little to ease the tension hanging in the precinct. Phones rang, keyboards clicked, conversations hummed low—but to Ronnie, it all felt distant. She sat at her desk, eyes narrowed at her laptop screen, skimming over surveillance images and forensic notes. She hadn’t seen Mark since early that afternoon when she avoided his gaze like it would burn her. But her focus today wasn’t just on avoiding awkward eye contact. Something had caught her attention.

She leaned forward, her fingers flying across the keys, cross-referencing addresses linked to Elise Smith’s aliases and relatives. A pattern was emerging—one she hadn’t noticed until now. She needed to talk to Mark.

Ronnie stood, grabbing her notepad, and exited her office. She scanned the bullpen but didn’t see him. Turning to a young officer who was filing a report near the corner, she asked, “Hey, where did Detective Marshalls and Jackson go?”

The officer looked up. “They got a call. Someone fitting Elise Smith’s description was seen walking into a yellow house over in Meadow Hills. They left a few minutes ago to check it out.”

Ronnie blinked. “Yellow house? Did they say the number?”

He shook his head. “Just the street and house color. Didn’t seem urgent at the time. Want me to text them you’re looking for them?”

She waved him off. “No. Thanks.”

Her heart quickened.

Meadow Hills was nestled on the edge of town, a place known more for backyard barbecues and garden gnomes than violent criminals. But the moment Mark and Jackson turned onto Heather Lane, the tone shifted.

The yellow house sat three doors from the cul-de-sac, framed by tall pines and an immaculate lawn. It looked quaint—cheerful, even—with bright blue shutters and a matching blue door. A red tricycle sat near the porch, untouched.

Mark narrowed his eyes, his hand already resting over his holster. “Doesn’t scream ‘serial killer hideout,’ does it?”

Jackson checked the address again, glancing toward the house. “No. But neither did the meat-packing plant from the outside. Let’s do this clean.”

They approached cautiously, boots silent against the pavement. Mark knocked firmly on the door.

No answer.

He waited, then knocked again. Harder.

Still nothing.

Jackson leaned toward the knob and gave it a slow turn. It clicked.

Unlocked.

Mark nodded at him and drew his weapon. “Police!” he called out, stepping inside. “If anyone’s in here, identify yourself!”

Jackson mirrored the command, weapon drawn, eyes scanning the opposite side of the house.

The inside was… perfect.

Too perfect.

Everything in the living room was pristine. Not a pillow out of place. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air, artificial and clinical. The floors were gleaming, freshly waxed. A vase of lilies sat centered on the coffee table, untouched.

Mark moved like a shadow, clearing the left side of the room. Jackson flanked right, moving past the hallway entrance.

“Kitchen’s clear,” Mark muttered into his comm.

“Hallway clear,” Jackson responded.

Then, just as Mark stepped toward the stairs, he heard it.

Click.

A soft, mechanical sound.

He froze.

Jackson halted in place as well, both men instantly rigid.

A heartbeat later—

BOOM.

A loud, ear-rattling bang exploded through the house, followed by the shudder of walls and the sound of glass somewhere upstairs shattering.

A section of the house—starting from the rear bedroom—exploded outward, flames and shrapnel ripping through the air. The shockwave knocked both men off their feet.

Smoke billowed, the walls groaned, and fire alarms shrieked through the house.

Mark coughed hard as he pushed himself up, ears ringing. His left forearm was bleeding from a gash caused by flying debris, but he was otherwise okay.

“Jackson?” he called, disoriented.

“I’m good—I’m good,” Jackson groaned, limping from the hallway, holding his shoulder. “Caught part of it… but I’m okay.”

They stumbled out the front door as sirens blared in the distance. Within moments, flashing red lights painted the street—fire trucks, ambulances, and squad cars swarming the scene.

Mark helped Jackson sit on the back of an ambulance before stepping away to catch his breath.

That’s when he saw it.

Sitting on the hood of his truck, neatly placed, was a single envelope.

It had his name on it.

Detective Marshalls written in block, precise letters.

His gut turned to ice.

He picked it up and opened it.

Inside were photos.

The first was of him and Ronnie last night—kissing on her couch.

The next was worse. Ronnie, asleep on the couch, her head resting on his chest, peaceful and unaware.

Then another—just Ronnie, tucked into bed. The camera angle suggested someone had been inside the room.

Watching.

Mark’s fists clenched around the envelope, his jaw tightening.

Whoever this was, they weren’t just taunting them anymore.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and overcooked cafeteria food. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Ronnie all but sprinted through the sliding doors, nearly knocking over a woman in a wheelchair as she rounded the corner.

“Sorry!” she called behind her breathlessly, eyes wide, heart pounding.

She had gotten the call fifteen minutes ago—a junior officer had stammered out that there’d been an explosion at a property Mark and Jackson were checking out. That Jackson might have fractured something. That Mark had been cut up. That it could’ve been so much worse.

Her stomach was in knots.

She hated hospitals. The sterile lighting, the hum of machines, the quiet sounds of pain in every hallway—but none of it mattered as she reached the nurses’ station.

“I’m looking for Detectives Marshalls and Jackson,” she blurted out, barely giving the nurse time to look up.

“They were brought in about twenty minutes ago,” the nurse said, scanning her chart. “Room 212 and 214. You family?”

Ronnie hesitated. “I’m—I'm with them.”

The nurse raised a brow but waved her through.

Room 214 was closest. Ronnie pushed the door open gently and found Jackson propped up in the hospital bed, shirt off, arm in a makeshift sling, a bruise forming across one cheekbone.

His eyes lit up when he saw her. “Damn, doc, you really know how to make a guy feel cared for.”

Ronnie’s chest loosened a little. “What happened?”

“I caught the worst of the boom,” he said with a wince, motioning to his shoulder. “Hairline fracture, they think. I'll live. Mark's next door—he’s got a couple slices, nothing too serious. Took a hit to the ribs when the blast pushed us back.”

Ronnie nodded, her feet already moving. “Glad you're okay.”

She didn’t hesitate when she reached 212. The second she pushed open the door and saw him, she ran.

Mark was already standing. His arms opened as she barreled toward him.

They collided in a hard, desperate hug. Ronnie wrapped her arms around his neck, and Mark pulled her in tight, burying his face in her hair. Her body shook.

Tears broke free and soaked into his chest.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, squeezing her tighter. “I’m okay, Ronnie. I promise.”

But she didn’t let go. She couldn’t. Her knees were weak, her heart racing, and now that she was in his arms, all the terror she’d held at bay came flooding out. He rubbed slow circles into her back, keeping her steady, anchoring her.

After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

“There’s something else,” he said quietly, reaching toward the tray beside the bed.

He picked up a plastic evidence bag and held it out to her.

Inside was an envelope, she opened it with shaking hands.

Photographs spilled into her palm.

The first few showed the two of them from the night before—kissing on her couch, then her sleeping on Mark chest.

Then her.

Alone.

In her bed.

Asleep.

She stared at the images, her fingers going numb. “No…”

“He was in your house again,” Mark said, jaw tight. “These were left on my truck. Addressed to me.”

Ronnie’s breath hitched. “But how? We fixed the alarm system. There’s no way—”

“He’s must have something that interferes with it,” Mark said, voice low and urgent. “We missed something. And until we figure out what that is, you are not going back there.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Mark—”

“No,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “I mean it. It’s not safe. Your house is compromised. He’s gotten in more than once and now he’s leaving things right under our noses. You staying there isn’t an option.”

Her lips parted like she was going to argue, but then closed again.

Mark looked her over carefully. “I checked already. Every hotel in a thirty-mile radius is booked because of the holiday festival downtown. I called five of them myself. Until something opens up…”

He hesitated.

“You’re staying with me.”

Ronnie blinked.

Mark straightened his posture, voice steady. “Just until we figure this out. I’ll sleep on the couch. You’ll be safe. I won’t take no for an answer.”

There was a beat of silence before she whispered, “Okay.”