Page 89 of Protected from Torment

“That doesn’t help Mel,” I shot back, the impotent anger I’d been trying to tamp down finally boiling over. “Precautions don’t make her nightmares go away. They don’t take away her bruises. We should have been more careful before any of this shit happened.”

But that wasn’t really fair. In the two-plus years our branch has been active, we’ve worked hard to keep the Shadow Team’s work a secret. We don’t advertise, like the Alpha and Bravo teams. Our headquarters isn’t registered to Blade and Arrow, but a fictional retired couple who dabbles in painting and photography. Everything we send to the police is done anonymously or through one of our trusted contacts. Even our paychecks come from an anonymous LLC.

Anonymity was the goal when the Shadow Team was formed. Our team would be the one that worked outside the law, when it was necessary. Because of that, keeping a low profile was important. And we thought we’d done everything to keep it that way.

What’s that saying, though? A secret is only a secret when there’s one person left to tell it?

Not that it was my teammates who gave up my identity, or any of the other B and A employees. And I know they never would.

But our clients know our names. They know what we look like. When we work with them—especially our pro-bono clients—we get to know each other. We talk about shared interests. Hobbies. Places we’d like to visit one day. We don’t share deeply personal things with them, but we develop friendships that often last past when the case is closed.

That’s how my identity was revealed. Not on purpose, but inadvertently. The client we helped just before I left for New York to help Melissa—the woman being blackmailed by deepfake videos—made an innocent comment to her best friend about the people who helped her. And as the lead investigator on her case, my name was the one she mentioned.

From there, it was an avalanche of bad coincidences. Our client’s friend told another friend. And that friend said something to her cousin about this computer whiz named Tyler who lives outside Portland and wears a prosthetic after losing his leg in the Army.

It might have ended there, if the cousin hadn’t known the man who blackmailed our client to begin with. But he did. And he didn’t hesitate to tell him.

Then Will Franks, the very pissed-off deepfake blackmailer, decided to get revenge against the man who sent him to jail.

Technically, it was everyone on my team, but I understand why I was the natural target. And if it had only been me, I would have accepted it.

But it wasn’t just me. Melissa was dragged into this mess, too. And that’s unacceptable.

How can you keep her safe when you’ll always be a target? a scornful voice asks silently. How do you know someone else won’t come after you? Come after her?

My jaw clenches, sending spears of pain through it. A dull ache pulses in my head. Lengthening my strides, I race across the packed-down dirt, pushing myself until my lungs are screaming and my clothes are soaked with perspiration.

How can I keep Melissa safe when there are still people out there with motive to hurt me? People I’ve helped send to jail—drug smugglers, dark web traffickers, blackmailers—who wouldn’t hesitate to drag an innocent woman into their quest for vengeance?

In the week since the ambush, I’ve asked myself that dozens of times.

Can I keep Melissa safe? Not just at Blade and Arrow, but everywhere? I’d love to say I’ll always be around to protect her, but that’s not realistic. She’s an independent woman who’s used to going places on her own. And unless I want to quit my job, there are going to be times when I can’t be with her.

That’s assuming she wants to be with me at all.

No, she hasn’t said she blames me for what happened. But how could she not? Those men were there for me, not her.

They shot at us. Tried to run us off the road. If they’d gotten the chance, I’ve no doubt they would have killed us both.

If I were Melissa, I wouldn’t forgive me. I’d be hauling ass back to New York. Or South Carolina, to stay with her parents. Or, shit, anywhere but here.

I don’t want her to leave. But I’m not sure I deserve to have her with me, either.

“Fuck,” I mutter as my foot catches on a fallen branch, pitching me forward. I catch myself before falling, but only just. Suddenly furious at the stupid branch that tripped me up, I turn and kick it hard. The branch flies off into a nearby bush, startling a rabbit hiding beneath and sending it scurrying off in search of a new hiding place.

Embarrassed by my childish outburst—what am I, eight? Kicking a stick because I wasn’t paying attention?—I shake my head at myself before lifting my shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead. Then I glance at my watch, surprised to discover I’ve been running for over an hour. Usually, I hit the gym for an hour first thing after waking up, then do a thirty-minute run through the trails before heading back to my cabin to share breakfast with Mel.

She’s probably wondering where I am, I realize. Possibly worrying.

Guilt slashes through me. And with it, a sinking certainty that I’m failing Mel yet again.

Slowing my pace slightly, I start running in the direction of my house. Thanks to the brief pause in my workout, my muscles voice their disapproval. You’re thirty-nine, they remind me, not twenty-one. You can’t push your body this hard without repercussions.

As I run, I imagine Melissa back at the cabin, waiting for me. Sitting in the kitchen, working on one of the word puzzle books I got for her, or maybe playing gentle tug with Oscar. She’s likely still in her pajamas—cute little shorts paired with whichever T-shirt of mine she borrowed. And when I come through the door, she’ll give me the same sweet smile she does every time she sees me.

Or maybe not. Because she’s been smiling less and less with each day that passes. The first day after the ambush, I didn’t expect it. I knew she was still traumatized from everything that happened. But it’s been a week now, and the smiles I used to see all the time are rare and strained.

Maybe she’s trying to figure out how to break up with me, I consider as my cabin comes into view from between the trees. Everything’s been so busy with meetings and interviews with the police, she might be waiting until things settle down.