Page 75 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Silence.

“Bullshit.”

Hudson turned into the grocery store lot and parked facing the road. Nothing in the lot moved except a woman loading bags into the back of an SUV and a raven hopping along the snowbank.

“Owen—”

“No, don’t Owen me. You sound off.”

Hudson rubbed a tender spot between his eyes. “I said I’m fine. I need time.”

“Brother, whatever you’ve kicked over by chasing Cord, somebody felt it. They’re asking why. Other people are asking why they’re asking.” Owen’s voice lowered. “That’s not normal.”

“No.”

“Then bring it in officially.”

“I can’t.”

“Then walk away.”

Hudson looked at the grocery store entrance, at the automatic doors opening for an old man with a bag of dog food tucked under one arm. At the ordinary morning happening around him, as if someone hadn’t tried to kill Sarah barely twelve hours ago.

He could walk away from the file. The politics. The career damage. All of it.

He couldn’t walk away from Sarah.

There it was. Not after last night. Not while someone out there still thought she was a way to get to him.

Owen heard whatever he didn’t say. “Jesus, Kane.”

“I’ll get control of it.”

“Yeah,” Owen said. “You'd better decide what it is first.”

Hudson ended the call and sat in the car a moment longer, his fingers curled hard enough that the tendons stood out. Then he got out, locked the Volvo, and went into the store.

He headed straight to the soup aisle. Sarah needed food that required minimal effort. Hydration. Protein. Something warm and easy.

Tactical mistake. He stared at four kinds of chicken noodle. Christ. Four? He picked one up, checked the ingredients, put it back. He tried another brand, frowned at the sodium, put that one in the cart, and added the first one anyway.

By the time he left the aisle, he had twelve soups and no dignity.

Coffee was worse.

Sarah drank it so sweet it was practically dessert. He had no idea what brand she drank.

He ran a hand through his hair as he stared at twelve different dark roasts, as if one of them might confess. Fuck. Then he chucked six different brands into the cart. Just to be safe. Then cinnamon coffee too, because part of him remembered that she liked cinnamon in winter and had spent fifteen years waiting for the memory to become useful.

He added fresh fruit because the bowl in her kitchen had dust in it. Bread because the house had smelled of nothing except work when he opened the door. He added enough groceries to cook actual meals—eggs, pasta, tomatoes, garlic, butter, chicken, steak. Peanut butter—crunchy, because he’d heard her once tell Ryder smooth peanut butter was for weirdos, and Hudson had no idea why that memory was still in his head when he’d forgotten entire names from former missions.

By the pharmacy section, he slowed.

The hospital had given her instructions and medication, but he’d rather carry home things she’d never use than have her need something she didn’t have. He added heating pads, a cold pack, and extra pain meds she might not need, but she might, and that was enough for his brain now. He looked down into the cart. He had enough food to stock a small family. Regardless, he added chocolate.

He frowned, then reached for fresh flowers. Flowers weren’t practical. He put them in the cart anyway.

At checkout, he unloaded the cart onto the conveyor belt. Enough groceries to survive a moderate weather event.