She nodded, desperate and determined at once. “I can pull files from the podcast server. I know where some of the raw audio is stored.”
“Good.” He stood and moved to the sink, washing his hands like he was scrubbing at the problem. “No loud moves. We hit itmethodically. If Warren covered his tracks, we can still pry loose the seams.”
She exhaled, a small, shaky sound.
They worked in silence, clearing up the dishes. The clatter of plates and the low hum of the dryer filled the small kitchen. Avery stood beside him at the sink, rinsing while he dried. It should have felt ordinary, but it didn’t.
Every time her arm brushed his, his pulse kicked up a notch. The soft scent of her hair drifted closer each time she leaned over, something faint and clean from the shower. He told himself to focus on the dishes, on the simple rhythm of rinse and dry, but his mind kept drifting.
She was right there.
Three years hadn’t dulled the memory of what they’d had before Evan. It was buried deep, under guilt and time and war, but it was still there, smoldering.
He kept his focus on the plate in his hands. Avery had been Evan’s wife, and that made her off-limits. Always had.
But his body wasn’t getting the message.
She turned to hand him a glass, their fingers brushing. The touch was brief, nothing intentional, but the air between them tightened. She glanced up, her eyes catching his for just a heartbeat too long before she looked away.
Jackson swallowed hard and set the glass on the counter a little too forcefully. “That’s the last of them,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant.
“Yeah,” she said softly, drying her hands.
Before he could say something to break the tension, his phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with a message from Crossfire Ops dispatch.
He frowned. “That’s odd.”
Avery turned. “What is it?”
“Dispatch says they’ve got a call for me.” He picked up the phone, reading the next line as it came through. His jaw tightened. “It’s from Mick Barker.”
Her eyes widened. “Charlotte’s son is calling you?”
“Apparently,” Jackson said. “What the hell does he want?”
He took a slow breath, weighing it, then said into the phone, “Put the call through.”
Jackson leaned against the counter, the phone on speaker between them. The line crackled once, then Mick’s voice came through, low and strained.
“Mr. Ward, I need you to hear me out,” Mick said. “I’m not calling to start anything. I think I’m being used.”
Jackson shot Avery a quick glance, his instincts already on alert. “Go on.”
“The Brotherhood’s not what my father built,” Mick said. “They’ve twisted it into something else. Darian Locke’s pulling the strings now, and my mother’s backing him. They’re both dangerous.”
Jackson’s hand tightened on the edge of the counter. “You expect me to take your word for that? You showed up at my place with them this morning.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Mick said, his tone raw. “They think I’m one of them, but I’m not. I don’t have any grudge against Avery Hastings. You need to know that.”
“Then why call us?” Jackson demanded.
Mick hesitated. “Because someone in the Brotherhood killed my girlfriend.”
Jackson froze. “Say that again.”
“Her name was Melissa Johnson,” Mick said. “Her older brother was in the Brotherhood, and she was trying to break ties with him. But then she was murdered. The cops called it a robbery gone wrong. It wasn’t. It was the Brotherhood.” His voice broke a little. “I think Darian killed her.”
Avery’s eyes widened. “That podcast,” she whispered. “It was the one I mentioned earlier with ties to the Brotherhood. The case that might’ve caught their attention.”
