Determined, stubborn, reckless.
She was going to get herself killed with her pigheaded pursuit of justice.
Ghost rolled down the window. “Naomi.”
She glanced back at him, her eyes snapping annoyance. “What?”
“Don’t talk to Finch alone. Wait for me.”
She stopped with one hand on her car door. “I can handle Finch.”
“Not the point.” He kept his hands loose on the wheel, eyes on her and the ranch buildings beyond. “Point is, ex-boyfriends are unpredictable. Especially ones who just lost control. People like that, they escalate.”
She cocked her head. “You think he’ll hurt me?”
He let the silence stretch. Let her fill it.
“Because I don’t.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest. “I’ve handled worse.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t blink. “And if he’s hopped up on liquor and self-pity, and decides to prove a point? All it takes is thirty seconds, and no one’s around to hear.”
She hesitated. Just a heartbeat, but he saw it.
“All fury, no sense,” Ghost muttered. “You want Finch, you wait. I’ll be back by sixteen hundred. We go together.”
She huffed. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Wait for me.”
seven
For a second,she looked like she might argue. Maybe even stomp back to the truck and throw it in his face. He braced for it, already winding up a list of counterpoints in his head.
She flipped him off as she yanked open her car door. It slammed hard enough that Cinder’s ears perked up, and a second later, she peeled out.
She was going to do something stupid. He could feel it in his bones.
No. Not stupid. Brave.
She was going to do something brave, which was worse. Brave got you killed just as fast as reckless ever did.
He should’ve said more, explained why it mattered so damn much that she wasn’t alone when she talked to Finch. But he’d seen the set of her jaw, the spark in her eyes. She’d die before she ever admitted fear. He respected that more than he’d ever say out loud.
And, fuck, he hated that she was going back to that cabin on Cedar Street alone. He knew exactly the one she’d rented—no external lights, no security, nothing but darkness and a cemetery for neighbors. If Finch or anyone else wanted to catch her off guard out there, they’d have all night and no witnesses.
He growled at the thought and climbed out of the truck. The sun was barely cresting the ridge, painting everything in bloody stripes, and he could see each exhale. There’d be frost on the grass soon if the temperature continued to drop.
Cinder jumped out after him and circled the truck, nose skimming for threats. He stood in the cold for a moment and watched her, but his mind was back in the auto shop, replaying the moment Carina Padilla’s face had crumpled with grief and how Naomi had touched the woman’s arm to comfort her. Not a big gesture, but real. Human.
He didn’t do that.
Couldn’t.
He was good with facts, with patterns. Not people. Never people.
So why was he getting involved in this?
It was the job, he told himself. Nothing more. He was wired for threat assessment, and right now, she was a prime target. Not just because she was pushing every local cop’s buttons, but because someone out there was hunting women like her. Smart, determined, inconvenient women.
