“Let’s not worry about that now.”
I flip on my blinker and take the exit. “What about my family? Am I putting them in danger by coming here?”
“Your uncle is a former Texas Ranger, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be fine.”
And deep down, I know I will be. Uncle Buddy would never letanything happen to me, but I can’t squash the anxiousness that I’m bringing trouble to the only place I’ve ever felt completely safe.
The route to the ranch is second nature. With my mom’s ADHD, I didn’t have a lot of constants in my life growing up, but Buddy and Renee, my cousin Rex, and their beautiful ranch kept me anchored.
I pull into the long dirt driveway, the sky an inky black, the house dark and peaceful against the Texas night. I feel bad I’m arriving so late, but Athena told me to take my time getting here so they could monitor if Rook or Ramirez was looking for me.Or the FBI.
Ben in the FBI? Is that really so far-fetched? I mean, probably less far-fetched than thinking he’s in cahoots with Ramirez. Unless he is.
But if only one of them could be true... obviously I’d want him to be FBI. Right?
Unless—oh, crap.
My brain does a full, panicked highlight reel of all the times I thought I was being slick, and suddenly it’s more of a blooper reel. The museum library, where I oh-so-casually tried to plant a listening device? He wasright there. The balcony in Italy, where I almost died? He only flinched when I fed him the line about the cat because he knew I was lying. Oh,sweet mercy,the ring excuse. He knew I’d been in Ramirez’s office and saw right through my line before I even finished making it up.
The whole time I was suspicious of him working for Ramirez, and the whole time it had to look like I was neck-deep in his criminal operation.
But if he isn’t FBI, then I’ve been playing spy with someone who already knows the game and knows how to beat me.
When I see the main house ahead, I cut my car’s headlights and circle around the gravel drive toward the guesthouse in the back. I park near a large pecan tree and smile when I see the tire swing still hanging from its thick branch. Getting out of the car, I stretch my back where tightness has seeped into my muscles. I take a deep inhale of the sweet country air, and it’s impossible not to feel the tug of yearning deep in my soul.
This is what security and stability are supposed to feel like.
Crickets serenade me as I quietly pull my overnight bag out of the back seat along with the grocery bag holding the ingredients for peach cobbler. In my effort not to look like I was a fleeing fugitive, I swung by the only open grocery store on my way out of town to grab ingredients for cobbler. It’s my uncle Buddy’s favorite and the one thing he requested when I asked him what he wanted for his birthday. A familiar request from a simple man in a place that hasn’t changed in years. Which is exactly why I’ve come here—to pretend that my life still makes sense.
The guesthouse is a cookie-cutter version of the main house. Hand-hewn oak beams and reclaimed barn siding complement the creamy natural stone of both residences, even though the guesthouse was built just a few years ago.
Adjusting the load in my arms, I squat down to retrieve the key tucked under the edge of the mat. Set a few miles from the interstate and deep into the hills of Cypress Creek, there isn’t much need for security—at least none Uncle Buddy and his family can’t provide given they own nearly a hundred acres of riverfront property in all directions from here. I unlock the door and step in, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and cedar.Home.Or at least the closest I’ve ever known.
The second I step inside, I feel it.
Something is off.
Then I hear it—the faintest creak of a floorboard.
My stomach drops.
Someone is here.
My heart slams into my ribs. Rook? Ramirez? Have I led them straight to my family? I hold my breath, waiting for the next sound so I can pinpoint where it’s coming from. Uncle Buddy keeps rifles near the back door of the main house, but the last thing I want to do is make a run for it and lead whoever is in here with me straight to my aunt and uncle.
A shadow passes and without thinking, I grab the first thing in my grocery bag I can wrap my fingers around—a five-pound sack of flour—and hurl it at the shadow moving in the corner.
I’m rewarded with a grunt. Then a muffled curse.
The moonlight reflects on the cloud of white floating in the air, coating the intruder like a ghostly specter.
“Son of a—”
A cough muffles the rest of his words, but... that voice.
