I wait for the urge to leave. It doesn’t come. That’s also new.
Every other morning of my adult life, waking up somewhere new has been an exercise in quiet extraction. I probably could give even the best Special Forces operator a run for their money. Not that I’d ever tell that to Jesse.
But part of the difference is I feelchosenby a man who had nearly ten years of other options and didn’t take any of them. He waited for me.
My throat tightens.
Stop. Don’t cry in his bed before the sun rises.
Instead, I bury my face against the pillow and breathe through emotions, turning me into a hot mess. I’ve been running so long I forgot what staying felt like.
Maybe this is it.
Reeves and his men arrive at five. Logan acts like nothing’s out of the ordinary. The bulletproof vests under their shirts tell me differently. And those guys must have left Seattle in the wee hours of the night to get here by now.
The group sits at Logan’s kitchen table with paperwork and coffee mugs. The warrant is not only real, but there’s a federal piece alongside the Seattle one. Chaz Volkov is wanted on three charges, any one of which puts him in jail for at least fifteen years, and the three together would lock him away for life.
I drink coffee in the doorway, wearing Logan’s flannel shirt over my leggings, and listen to a man I’ve never met explain the legalities that’ll take care of the man who’s been stalking me for more than two years.
Reeves looks at Logan. “We can’t move on him this morning.”
Logan’s jaw tenses. “Why not?”
“He went dark.”
The kitchen goes silent. All I hear is the pounding of my heart. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. It’s supposed to be over. Today.
My fingernails dig into my palms.
Logan’s face has turned red. “He’s been here for days.”
“Was here,” Reeves says. “Last seen parked behind a closed gas station outside Wenatchee around four this morning. We’ve got eyes on every road in and out of the county, but he’s smart enough to switch cars and lay low for at least a few hours. Maybe longer.”
Logan slams his fist on the table. “Fuck.”
“I know,” Reeves says, “but a warrant does me no good without a body to put it on.”
“He’ll come back,” Logan says, his voice certain. “He didn’t track Sophie this long to walk away. We keep her in a public place until he does.”
That’s all I need to hear. I go into the kitchen. “Then I’m going to work.”
Logan doesn’t argue. He’s already on his phone texting. No doubt my brothers and cousin. “You won’t be alone. Mason can be at the counter. Eli will have eyes on Main Street. The county is doing drive-bys.”
“We’ll be there,” Reeves says, and his team nods. “Don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hungry.”
Everyone laughs. That lightens the tension slightly.
“Then I’d better get ready.” I try to keep my voice steady when I want to crawl onto Logan’s lap and cry. An hour later, I’m behind the counter, and Logan is at the sheriff’s office. I glance at the stool where he usually sits and wish he was there, but he’s doing what needs to be done and so am I.
Mason walks in at eight-fifteen and tips his head in my direction. He’s got an open carry permit, so I have no doubt a revolver is tucked into his jeans. He sits at the corner of the counter with a clear sightline to the front door and the back hall. He drinks the coffee I pour him and says nothing, because that’s what Mason does.
Gideon Mercer, Wells Granger, and Cole Hart enter next. They are ex-military and live on the ridge. Jesse says they’re the best men he knows, so my brother must’ve let them know what’s going on.
Gideon stops at the counter on his way to a booth. “Monica says you owe her a recipe. A mocktail or something.”
“Tell her I’m working on it.”
He picks up the coffee Roz has set out for him. “Anything you need today, you say it.”
