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Tenaya perched on the edge of the mattress, its softness calling to her weary body. But lingering tension kept her upright, muscles taut.
Graham hovered in the doorway, uncertainty etched on his weathered face. “Get some sleep,” he said gruffly. “Yell if you need anything.”
He started to turn away when Tenaya spoke. “Graham?”
He froze at the unexpected address. His eyes were guarded when he turned back. “Yeah?”
She traced the quilt’s stitching, gathering courage. “Thank you,” she said softly.
He stared at her for a long moment, throat working. Then he gave a brief nod and disappeared down the hall.
Tenaya exhaled, some of the knots inside her loosening. Their history hung heavy between them. But for tonight, calling a truce was enough.
6
Morning light leaked around the edges of the window coverings, dragging Tenaya from sleep. Disoriented, she bolted upright, clutching the quilt to her chest, Victor’s leering face looming in her mind.
She’d been terrified to fall asleep, but no nightmares had plagued her. She’d slept deeply, dreamlessly. The realization oriented her—Graham’s cabin. She was safe.
For now.
She rubbed grit from her eyes and sat listening to the utter stillness beyond her room. What time was it? She never slept past sunrise, but judging by the brightness, it was mid-morning at least.
Or maybe not. She pulled open the drapes, and gasped. The landscape was covered in snow. Snow. In September. An inch or two of thick, fluffy flakes coated everything in sight, making the landscape literally glow under the sunlight struggling to break out above.
She shivered. If anything could make her feel even more alien, it would be winter weather. She lacked a ski jacket, boots and snow tires. “Sorry,” she whispered to her poor car, shivering beneath a blanket of white.
Dread lay heavy in her stomach. The weather only added to her sense of isolation. Whether she liked it or not, she’d be stuck relying on Graham’s hospitality now.
Ugh.
After a quick shower, she dressed and followed the scent of coffee toward the kitchen. Graham stood at the counter, his broad shoulders dusted with snow.
Flakes clung to his beard, making him look younger, too. More vulnerable. Approachable, even.
Not that she planned on making any overtures.
Noticing her stare, he tugged at his beard. “Time to get into work mode. We’ve got a mission to complete.”
He poured her a cup of coffee, handing it over with a grim expression. “Drink up and pack. We’re heading out.”
Tenaya halted, mug in hand. “What? Wait. I need a minute. Where, exactly, do you plan to take us?”
“I did some checking on your Victor Montalvo last night.” Graham ignored her protest. “He’s not just a psychopath. He’s connected to the Russian mafia. I’m not sure how connected, but even an associate spells trouble. Real name’s Mikael Victor Zhezhnov.”
Tenaya’s mug rattled as she set it down. Graham gave her the highlights—Victor’s ties to the Red Hand, a ruthless gang trafficking in drugs and weapons.
“A guy that connected will have no trouble tracing that car of yours. Probably already has.” He thrust out a palm. “Hand over your phone.”
She pressed a hand to her pocket. Not. Gonna. Happen.
He took a step toward her, looking bigger and badder with every inch. “Hand it over. He’s probably already got a trace on it.”
Her blood froze. She was so much more out of her depth than she’d even imagined. Choking back another protest, she surrendered the device.
Graham’s big hand swallowed the sleek phone as he grunted. His version of thank you, maybe?
“Drink up,” he ordered and headed to the desk at the far corner of the room.
