It's a call alert on the watcher number—the burner I set up two months ago that forwards from Hadley's old Garrison cell to a voicemail she doesn't know exists.
The incoming caller ID says Todd Whitley.
He's calling her at this hour.
I let it ring out.
The voicemail comes through a minute later.
I open the file. I put on the headphones and wait.
His voice is soft. He's been drinking. The bar was open at the Hampton until eleven and he was in it both nights and I’m certain tonight is no different.
He says, "Hey, honey. I just—I want you to know I'm not goin' anywhere. Not until you and I have had a real conversation. The kind we should've had on your porch yesterday before that man interrupted us. Garrett would've wanted you to talk to me. You know that. I know you know that. Call me when you're ready, honey. I'll wait."
The line goes dead.
I listen to it twice.
Then a third time, because I want to be sure.
Garrett would've wanted you to talk to me. You know that. I know you know that.
I close the file. Encrypt it. Save it to the folder labeled ‘Whitley’.
I sit at the desk with my elbows on the cypress and my hands together in front of my mouth, and I think about a man weaponizing a dead husband's memory to lever a widow off her own porch and into a conversation she didn't ask for.
About that man driving five hours from Garrison to do it. About him still sitting at the Hampton bar two nights running, waiting for her to call.
I think about her hand on my chest forty minutes ago.
About her mouth.
About the small sound she made.
Garrett would've wanted you to talk to me.
No, Todd. He wouldn't have, because I’m sure deep down he knew you were a fucking snake the same way I do.
I look across the yard at her cabin.
Her bedroom light is off. She's sleeping. Probably the best sleep she's had in two days.
I'm not gonna tell her about the voicemail.
Some things a man takes care of without making the woman carry it.
This is my job, to protect her and Nash.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hadley
The bacon is on the third batch when I realize I've been thinking about a man's hat on a porch rail for the last forty minutes.
I flip the strips with the long fork. Press them flat. Move them around the cast iron so they crisp without burning. My hands know what they're doing without me. That's lucky, because the rest of me is somewhere else entirely.
I touch my fingers to my lips for a moment.
