Page 43 of Chasing the Other Woman

There’s a thin red welt along the side of my thumb. Nothing serious. Barely anything at all. Still, for one stupid second, all I can see is Brooks’s hand closing around my ring. His face when I told him he blamed me.

His mouth forming my name like he had no air left. Was he upset that I’d finally spoken the truth?

I turn away before Hershel can see that this tiny cut might be the thing that breaks me.

Across Main Street, Muncie is trying to pull itself upright. One of the most incredible parts of a disaster isn't the wind speeds or the destruction; it’s watching a community pick itself up and pull together.

Still, we’re drowning in chaos. The hardest part has been the blackout. A nearby cell tower took a direct hit, and with so many downed lines, even landlines are useless.

What the town needs more than anything is a working communications network.

I wipe my thumb on my jeans and turn back to Hershel. “We’re losing too much time.”

He looks up from the sign. “You’ve been going nonstop, Sam.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I gesture toward the bar, then the blocked road beyond it. “Cell service is garbage. The deputies have their radios, but half the volunteers don’t know who to report to. We’ve got weather updates coming from three different directions, check-ins on Petra’s wall, damage reports scribbled in my notebook, and families who still haven't found their people.”

Hershel’s expression shifts.

I know that look. It’s the same one he used to get when I caught rotation on radar ten minutes before anyone else in the truck.

“What?” I ask.

He glances toward the row of Storm Posse vehicles parked behind the bar. “Might have something.”

“Hershel.”

He nods toward the lot. “Come on.”

He leads me past the green beast, past the chase truck Brooks was showing Tom last night, straight to a matte-gray support rig. Despite knowing our fleet inside and out, I don’t recognize this one. It must have blended into the background of the caravan.

Hershel unlocks the side door.

Inside, radio consoles sit mounted in sleek, organized banks. There are labeled slots for field tablets, battery backups, weather radios, and satellite Wi-Fi terminals. A massive central monitor sits dark above a narrow workstation.

It’s a mobile command center. Not for tracking storm cells. We have enough tech in the primary chase trucks for that. This is built specifically for disaster relief, engineered for field triage and hard-hit towns cut off from the grid.

Hershel flips a master toggle. The screens wake in sequence, bathing the interior in cool blue light.

A system graphic pulses to life on the center display.

SAM. Storm Awareness Monitor.

For a second, the breath leaves my lungs.

“That’s my name.”

“Never could sneak one past you,” Hershel murmurs.

I turn to him slowly. “Tell me that’s a coincidence.”

He scratches at his gray beard. “I could, but I’ve been trying to cut back on lying. Doctor says it’s good for my blood pressure. Besides, I'm no good at it.”

My chest feels tight.

I reach out, gripping the cold metal frame of the van door until it bites into my palm.

“You’re telling me Brooks named this after me?”