"We need to go," he said."Now."
"My files?—"
He was already gathering them.The laptop, the USB drive, the photo album, the notebook.He swept everything into her bag and slung it over his shoulder.Then he checked both men’s pulse, secured the gun from under the bed, and tucked it into his waistband.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Then walk.Stay close."
He led her through the broken window because the shorter man's body was blocking the door.The night air hit her face, warm and thick with salt, and she breathed it in as if she'd been underwater.
His truck was at the end of the lot.He opened the passenger door, and she climbed in.Her hands were shaking badly enough that she couldn't work the seatbelt.Caleb reached across and buckled it for her, his hand brushing her hip, his face inches from hers.
"You came," she said.Her voice didn't sound like her own.
"I was already watching."He pulled back and met her eyes."Even after our fight.Even after you said—" He stopped."I was still watching."
She didn't say anything else.He started the truck and pulled out of the lot without turning on the headlights.Behind them, the bungalow door hung at an angle, and the broken window gaped dark against the white siding.
Harper pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window and let the shaking take her.She could still feel the tall man's knee in her back.Still feel the floor against her face.Still see the blade catching the light.
Caleb drove.His bleeding forearm gripped the steering wheel.His jaw was set, and his eyes moved constantly—mirrors, road, mirrors.He didn't speak.He didn't reach for her hand.
But he'd come.Through a window, without hesitation, when she'd given him every reason not to.
That was going to matter.She wasn't ready to think about how much.
Chapter 19
The safe house was dark when they pulled in.
Caleb killed the engine and sat for a moment, scanning the property through the windshield.The cottage looked the same as they'd left it—blinds drawn, no lights, the surveillance camera on the eave blinking its steady red pulse.He checked the perimeter feed on his phone.Nothing.No movement in the tree line.
Beside him, Harper sat with her forehead against the glass, her breathing shallow and uneven.Blood had dried along the side of her face, dark against pale skin, and her hands were folded in her lap with a deliberate stillness that told him how badly they wanted to shake.
"Stay here."
She didn't argue.That worried him more than the blood.
He did a perimeter check on foot, moving through the shadows around the cottage with the gun from the bungalow in his hand.Windows intact.Doors locked.No footprints in the soft ground beneath the windows, no signs that anyone had been here.
He came back and opened her door.She climbed out without help, but her hand found his arm when her balance shifted on the gravel, and she didn't let go until they were inside.
"Sit," he said, pointing to the couch.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding.Sit."
She sat.But her jaw was tight, and her eyes tracked him as he moved to the bathroom for the first aid kit—watching him the way she'd watch someone she wasn't sure she could trust.
He knelt in front of her and tilted her face toward the lamp.The cut on her forehead was shallow but messy, the skin split in a jagged line where she'd hit the floor and glass or ceramic pieces dug into her skin.Her lip was swollen where it had split against her teeth.The bruise on her cheek was already darkening, spreading toward her eye socket in shades of purple and red.
"Not deep," he said, cleaning the wound with antiseptic."Won't need stitches."
"I know.I've had worse."
