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"We need a perimeter," I say.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning right now we are reacting."

She doesn't like that answer. I know because her expression changes before she speaks.

"We're also gathering information."

"Yes."

"And that matters."

"It does."

She folds her arms.

"But?"

"But information won't help if something gets inside before we understand what it is."

Her mouth tightens. I know that look. She hates being told to wait. She always has.

When we were younger, if someone told her something couldn't be done, she immediately needed to know why.

The difference now is that she has an entire audience waiting for her to solve things.

Three million people trust her judgment. And she still doesn't trust her own safety.

"I can install motion sensors around the property," I say.

"I thought your plan was not to let us rely on technology."

"My plan is not to rely only on technology."

I pull my equipment bag onto the table.

"Technology gives us information."

"And your instincts?"

"Give us warning."

She glances toward Sayer.

"His too?"

He's sitting quietly on the sofa, pretending not to listen. He's terrible at pretending.

"Maybe."

The answer bothers her. I can tell. Not because she doubts him. Because she doesn't want him involved. Neither do I. But wanting something and reality are rarely the same thing.

I spend the next hour setting up the perimeter. Motion sensors along the tree line. Small cameras covering blind spots. A thermal detector aimed toward the back garden. Emergency lights positioned near every entrance.

Carys watches from the porch.

"You brought all of this with you?"