The building wasn't meant to look lived in.
That was intentional.
Metal siding.
No visible windows from the road.
One reinforced door.
A gravel drive that blended into brush.
Inside, it felt colder than the cabin.
Less personal.
More functional.
Sarah sat on the edge of one of two cots positioned along opposite walls. A single battery lantern hung from a ceiling hook, casting sharp industrial light across concrete floors.
Jack moved quietly around the space, reorganizing supplies as if settling into routine.
He had removed the zip ties and replaced them with rope this time — looser, but secured to a metal eyelet bolted into the floor.
"You see?" he said calmly. "No fire risk here."
She didn't respond.
He crouched near a plastic container filled with canned food and water pouches.
"Temporary adjustment," he continued. "Stability requires relocation."
"You burned the cabin," she said evenly.
"You forced escalation."
She held his gaze.
"You're losing control."
That made him pause.
Not anger.
Pause.
"I relocated because they miscalculated," he replied. "Not because I did."
His tone had changed.
Less explosive.
More obsessive.
He stood and walked toward her slowly.
"You know what this proves?"
"What?"
"That they will always overreact."
"And you won't?"
He smiled faintly.
"I don't overreact. I adapt."
Back in Branson, Jack's house was no longer a private residence.
It was a crime scene.
Uniformed officers stood outside while forensic teams moved carefully through each room.
Brian stepped through the front door slowly.
It looked ordinary.
That disturbed him more than anything.
Family photos were absent.
Minimal décor.
Organized.
Too organized.
"Hard drives seized," an officer reported.
"Garage?" Brian asked.
"Clear so far."
He moved into the bedroom.
Closet door open.
Clothes arranged neatly by color.
A second locked case sat on the upper shelf.
Brian nodded to evidence tech.
They opened it.
Inside:
A stack of printed photographs.
Three different women.
Surveillance angles.
Zoomed shots.
None were Sarah.
But one was recent.
"Who is that?" Brian asked quietly.
"Checking," tech replied.
Brian felt the air shift.
This wasn't just about Sarah.
It never had been.
In the kitchen, another officer called out.
"Detective — you need to see this."
Brian walked in.
Behind a removable panel near the pantry was a small hidden compartment.
Inside:
Burner phones.
SIM cards.
Cash.
A folded local map — not of the Ozarks.
Of the entire tri-state region.
Red lines circled clusters.
Patterns.
Movement arcs.
The Chief stepped beside him.
"He's not wandering."
"No," Brian said quietly.
"He's orbiting."
Inside the metal structure, Jack sat across from Sarah now.
Not standing.
Not pacing.
Studying her.
"You're quieter here," he observed.
"You talk enough for both of us."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You think I won't keep you?"
She didn't answer.
"You saw the map," he continued. "You understand I prepared."
"For kidnapping?"
"For protection."
"You don't protect someone by isolating them."
He leaned forward.
"I protect what matters."
The word "what" didn't go unnoticed.
Sarah felt it.
The shift from person to possession.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She didn't flinch.
That unsettled him more than resistance would have.
"You don't hate me," he said quietly.
She held his eyes.
"I don't understand you."
He smiled faintly.
"That's closer to truth."
At the hospital, Molly sat upright now, wrapped in a blanket despite the room being warm.
She was pale.
Tired.
But focused.
"Tell me about the red circles," she said to Brian as he entered.
He showed her a photo of the recovered map from Jack's house.
She studied it carefully.
"He's staying within distance," she whispered.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Brian leaned against the wall.
"Because distance increases unpredictability."
"And he doesn't like unpredictability."
"No."
She swallowed hard.
"He's still close."
"Yes."
The word hit her like ice water.
Her breathing quickened.
"He could be watching."
Brian didn't dismiss it.
"We've placed surveillance on every likely approach to this hospital."
"That's not what I meant," she whispered.
He understood.
Jack wasn't just tactical.
He was obsessive.
Inside the evidence lab, identification came through on one of the women in the photos.
"Detective Dawson," tech called.
Brian moved quickly.
"Name's Rachel Kincaid. Reported missing eighteen months ago in southern Missouri."
His jaw tightened.
"Connection?"
"Boyfriend with assault record. Charges dropped."
"Boyfriend's name?"
The tech hesitated.
"Alias used. But description matches Davis."
Silence filled the lab.
The Chief exhaled slowly.
"This is bigger than Sarah."
"Yes."
"Search warrants expanding," the Chief said. "We're pulling property deeds on every shell company tied to him."
Brian nodded.
"We don't move on all at once."
"No."
"We narrow by pattern."
Back inside the metal structure, Jack stood abruptly and moved toward a second interior door.
He unlocked it.
Inside was another smaller room.
Windowless.
Bare.
He gestured toward it.
"Contingency."
"For what?" Sarah asked.
"For when you're difficult."
Her stomach tightened.
He wasn't threatening violently.
He was adjusting psychologically.
Control through isolation.
"You don't have to do this," she said softly.
"I already did."
Back in Branson, Brian stood over a digital map with pins marking Jack's properties.
Six primary.
Two additional shell lots discovered.
All within ninety miles.
All rural.
All with secondary access.
"He hasn't crossed state lines yet," the Chief observed.
"No."
"Why?"
Brian stared at the pattern.
"Because this is home turf."
"He knows the terrain."
"He knows response times."
"He knows which counties communicate slowly."
Molly watched the map from her hospital bed.
"He won't leave yet," she whispered.
Brian looked at her.
"He thinks he's still in control."
"Yes."
Her voice trembled.
"But he's getting worse."
"How?"
"He looked different before the fire."
Brian's gaze sharpened.
"Different how?"
"Like he was… enjoying escalation."
That sat heavy.
Because escalation meant risk.
And risk meant volatility.
Brian straightened slowly.
"Then we don't just search."
The Chief looked at him.
"What do we do?"
"We pressure the radius."
"How?"
"We let him know we're closing in."
The Chief studied him carefully.
"You're ready to provoke?"
Brian didn't blink.
"He's still close."
"Yes."
"Then we force movement."
Because when predators move—
They make mistakes.
And somewhere within that tightening circle—
Jack was watching the horizon.
Obsessing over Sarah.
And preparing for the next shift.
This wasn't over.
It was compressing.
And compression always leads to rupture.