At the time, it had simply been another cold night in Bozeman, Montana, the kind where the temperature dropped so low the air itself felt sharp enough to cut your lungs when you breathed too deeply. Ridge lived alone in a small wooden house at the edge of a quiet neighborhood, a place where nothing much ever happened after midnight except the distant hum of trucks rolling down the highway.
The red numbers of the alarm clock on his bedside table glowed through the darkness.
2:14 AM.
Ridge was only half-awake when the sound began. At first it seemed like something subtle, almost delicate, like a branch brushing lightly against the front porch railing. But after a few seconds he realized it was something else entirely. The sound had rhythm. It came in soft, deliberate taps, each one spaced just a moment apart.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
