Eleven months ago he told her to hold position one more night. She was never seen again.
FBI comms analyst Grady Sartain runs the same query every morning before the coffee. One number. Eleven digits that haven't transmitted in eleven months. They belong to the confidential source he was listening to the night she disappeared — the woman he told to stay put, one more night, on his own authority.
Delia Fenwick knew her too. Corinne was her patient, and Delia read the danger on her the way she reads every survivor who comes through the clinic door. She reported it through the proper channels. The report died in a queue. Being careful the right way is what got a woman killed — and Delia has not trusted an institution since.
Now the Bureau wants the militia logistics chief who moved Corinne's life through a rural Ohio salvage yard, and it wants him in four days. Grady can find a signal in the noise but can't say why a frightened woman runs. Delia can predict a survivor's every choice but can't find her in the traffic. Neither of them gets there alone, and neither of them can stand the other's methods.
Then the surveillance starts looking back. A scanner sweeping a frequency it has no business knowing. A pattern that mirrors their own, one step off. Someone is out there in the dead air watching the watchers — and whoever it is knows exactly how Grady listens.
He wants a man to blame. What he finds is worse. The safeguard built to protect her is the thing that lit her up, his name is on the form that filed her into it, and the only person who can prove it has one narrow window to decide whether it is safe to be seen.
He spent eleven months listening for a dead number. Something out there is listening back.