The Dales were unusually quiet that morning, the mist rolling low over the fields, wrapping the village in a blanket of stillness. But for Cain Dingle, peace was the last thing on his mind.

He’d been up since before dawn, restless and agitated, pacing the yard outside the garage. His phone was clenched tightly in his hand, the screen glowing with a single message that had turned his stomach upside down.

It wasn’t from Moira. It wasn’t from Chas. It was from someone Cain thought was long gone from his life—someone who should have had no reason to reach out now.

The message was short, just four words: You need to know.

Cain had half a mind to ignore it, chalk it up to another wind-up from one of his many enemies. But the second message, sent moments later, included a location—and a time.

Against his better judgement, he went.

The meeting spot was an old, disused barn on the edge of the village, one Cain hadn’t been to since his teenage years. He’d expected some shadowy figure lurking in the corner, maybe an enemy from his past trying to bait him. But when he stepped inside, what he found made his blood run cold.

On the dusty floor sat a battered cardboard box. It looked harmless enough—until Cain crouched down and saw the contents.

Photographs. Dozens of them.

Some were old, clearly taken years ago. Others were recent, maybe even within the last few weeks. And in almost every single one, Cain’s family appeared—Moira in the garden, Kyle walking home from school, Chas leaving the Woolpack.

Someone had been watching them. Closely.

Cain’s jaw tightened. His first thought was protection—how to get his family somewhere safe without causing panic. But then his eyes caught on one photograph that froze him in place.

It was of him.

Not unusual in itself—Cain was used to people keeping tabs on him. But in this photo, he wasn’t in the village. He wasn’t even in the country. It was from a trip years ago, one he had told no one about. A trip that was supposed to stay buried forever.

And in the corner of the photo, partially obscured, was a face Cain recognised instantly. Someone he thought was dead.

His chest tightened, anger and confusion warring in his mind. If that person was alive, it meant the past wasn’t as finished as he thought. It meant old betrayals could come back to destroy him.

A creak from the barn door snapped Cain out of his thoughts. He spun around, ready to confront whoever had lured him here. But the doorway was empty—only the wind, rattling the hinges.

When he turned back, the box of photographs was gone.

Panic surged through him—not fear for himself, but for what this meant. Someone was playing a dangerous game, and they were two steps ahead.

By the time Cain made it back to the garage, his mind was racing with questions. Who sent the message? Who took the photographs? And most importantly—why now?

He knew he couldn’t go to the police. Not with his history, and not with the kind of people he suspected might be involved. This was something he’d have to handle himself.

But there was one problem—if the face in that photograph really belonged to who he thought it did, Cain wasn’t sure he could handle what came next.

Later that night, as the village lights flickered on and the pub filled with laughter and chatter, Cain sat alone in his truck, engine idling. He was staring at his phone again, reading the message over and over.

You need to know.

The truth was, he wasn’t sure he did.

Because whatever that box meant, it wasn’t just a threat. It was a warning.

And Cain Dingle didn’t get warnings unless someone wanted him scared.