(Toby's POV)

I kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other locked around Cynthia's phone, glancing at it every so often as though it might deliver another faceless threat at any moment. Beside me in the passenger seat, Cynthia sat rigid, staring out the window. I could feel waves of guilt radiating off her, mixing with my own relief at having found her safe.

I exhaled through my nose, trying to steady the adrenaline still rushing through me. A million thoughts battled in my head: She was out in public where anyone could have approached her. We're not sure who's watching. The Collective is still at large. But scolding her nonstop wouldn't change what had already happened.

We pulled into the driveway, and I killed the engine. The new security cameras perched on our eaves glinted in the late-afternoon sun. They were a visible reminder of how far we'd been pushed in just a few days. This was supposed to be a home—a refuge—and instead, it felt like a fortress under siege.

Cynthia unclipped her seatbelt, gaze drifting to me. "Dad," she began quietly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you and Mom."

I pressed my lips together, trying to contain the storm of emotions swirling inside me. I wanted to tell her I understood—but I also wanted to shake her and make her promise never to do it again. In the end, only a shaky sigh escaped. "We'll talk about it inside, okay?"

She nodded. Together, we headed up the walk. The front door swung open before I even knocked, and Spencer stood there with her arms folded tightly. Her expression flickered from anger to relief in the space of a heartbeat.

"Oh, Cynthia," she murmured, practically pulling our daughter into her arms. They hugged for a long moment. Then Spencer gently set her at arm's length, scanning her face. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Cynthia said. "Felicity and I just talked. I— I needed to do something normal."

Spencer's eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her voice stayed firm. "I get that. But next time, we talk first. Understood?"

"Understood," Cynthia replied, her own eyes brimming with remorse.

I closed the door behind us and set Cynthia's phone on the hallway table. The house felt tenser than ever, with the newly installed alarm panel blinking in the entryway. For a few seconds, no one spoke. Finally, Spencer gestured toward the living room. "Let's sit."

We settled around the coffee table. Cynthia perched on the edge of an armchair, hands clasped. I took the couch beside Spencer, and she laced her fingers with mine. Despite the residual anger simmering under my skin, I drew strength from her touch.

"So," I began, keeping my voice as calm as I could. "You snuck out. You caught the bus. And you…met Felicity at the café?"

Cynthia nodded, eyes flicking between us. "Yes."

A flicker of fresh worry hit me. "Did you notice anything off while you were there? Anyone watching you or following you?"

She bit her lip. "Not really. I mean, I was jumpy, but it was mostly people getting coffee and lunch. No one approached me—except Dad, obviously."

Spencer and I exchanged a glance. It was a small relief that nothing had happened. But as we both knew all too well, the Collective's tactics didn't always rely on direct confrontation. They thrived in the shadows.

Spencer drew in a breath. "All right. For now, you're safe. But the fact remains: these people have singled you out, and we still don't know why. Until we do, you can't be alone in public."

Cynthia's gaze dropped. She nodded, though frustration pinched her features. "I understand."

I drummed my fingers on my knee. "We're not trying to cage you in. We want to protect you. The difference is that this time, we move as a team—no secrets. No sneaking out."

"Agreed," she whispered.

A moment of quiet passed. Outside, one of the security techs hammered something into place, the thump echoing through the walls. Spencer was about to speak again when my phone buzzed—this time, the special ringtone I'd set for Mike from the Rosewood PD.

I stood, stepping a few feet away. "Yeah, Mike?"

His voice had the tense, clipped tone I recognized from years back. "We've made some progress. Or at least… we've found a pattern. That group you mentioned, the Black Rose Collective? We've got chatter about them in three other Pennsylvania counties, possibly more. But Toby—" he paused. "It's not just scare tactics. There have been incidents. Break-ins, data theft, even assault. No conclusive proof it's all them, but the M.O. lines up."

My stomach dropped. "So, they're willing to get physical if it suits their agenda."

"That's the concern," Mike confirmed grimly. "We're doing what we can, but they move in the shadows. The best advice I can give is to limit any easy opportunities they have. Don't isolate Cynthia."

I ran a hand over my face. "Right. Thanks for the heads-up. Keep me posted on anything else?"

"You got it."

I hung up, my pulse thudding. Break-ins. Assault. It was a stark reminder that we weren't dealing with bored pranksters. This was real. Turning back to the living room, I saw Spencer studying me, worry etched into every line of her face. Cynthia was silent, but her wide eyes told me she could sense bad news looming.

"That was Mike," I said, sitting back down. "He's confirming what we already guessed: the Collective is organized, and they're not afraid of crossing lines. We have to be extremely careful." My gaze shifted to Cynthia. "No more close calls."

She exhaled, shoulders slumping. "I get it."

I caught Spencer's eye, and we shared an unspoken understanding: We need to step up our game—fast. It was time to leverage every resource we had. Emily, Hanna, Aria, and Alison were all pitching in, but we needed more. Local cops might not cut it, given how elusive these people were.

Spencer cleared her throat. "Cynthia, why don't you go get some rest or catch up on homework? Your dad and I are going to figure out our next moves."

She nodded and rose slowly, pausing as if to see if we had anything else to say. When we didn't, she headed for the stairs. Halfway up, she turned back. "I'm really sorry. I promise I'll do better."

Spencer gave her a small, sad smile. "We know you will. We love you."

When she disappeared upstairs, we both let out tense breaths. Spencer turned to me, her voice low. "If the Collective has escalated to physical threats in other counties, we have to assume they might do the same here. I'm not waiting for that to happen."

I nodded, heart pounding. "I'll call in favors from old colleagues, maybe a private security firm. You should keep talking to your friends in law school, the FBI contact—whoever can help."

"Agreed," Spencer said firmly. Then she reached for my hand. "We won't lose this battle, Toby. We've fought worse before."

I squeezed her fingers, recalling the nightmares we'd lived through as teens. Back then, we were kids in over our heads. Now, we had life experience, resources, and a fierce need to protect our daughter. This time, I told myself, we'll do it right.

The hammering outside stopped. An eerie stillness settled over our house. For just a second, I closed my eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of Spencer's shampoo, the faint odor of coffee from the kitchen. This was our home, our refuge. No one was going to invade it without a fight.

"Let's get to work," I said.

Spencer nodded, her eyes blazing with the same determination I felt in my chest. Together, we rose from the couch, resolute. The Collective had shaken us, yes—but they'd also unified us in a way we hadn't been tested in years. If they wanted to bring their fight to our doorstep, they'd find out exactly how strong we'd become.