Page 38 of Only the Hunter

“Atlas.” As if recognizing his name, he hops off the table and leaves the room. “He’s not much of a snuggler. More of a hunter.”

“Do you have mice?”

“No,” I say with a grin. “I have a cat.”

“Hmm. If you’re ready, let’s head out.”

“You don’t have to drive me.”

“It’s not a problem.”

I doubt Alicia Morgan’s office is in the Capitol area, and if I’m correct, that would make it out of his way.

He opens the back door and holds it, expectantly. “Come on, Evie. Give me this.”

I exhale loudly, so he’s aware I’m not one hundred percent on board, lift my coat off the peg, and step through the threshold with a, “If driving me to work floats your boat, by all means.”

We listen to news on the drive—BBC then NPR—but I’m more aware of Gabe than the reports. The way he drives with both hands on the wheel. The way he occasionally glances at me then looks away.

When he pulls up to my building, I reach for the door handle, but he catches my wrist.

“Text me when you’re done.”

“That’s not necessary.” That’s what I say, even though it’s what I originally agreed to. I just feel ornery and raw—because this is feeling a lot like a security detail.

“Evie.” His thumb brushes my pulse point—accidental or deliberate, I can’t tell, but I feel it everywhere—from my toes to my scalp. “Let me do this.”

I pull the car door handle, grabbing my bag. “If it makes you feel better.”

“It does,” he says quietly, and I escape before the moment becomes any more awkward—or weird.

Safe on the other side of the windshield, I wiggle my fingers in a mini-wave before falling in line at the coffee cart, more out of habit than need. Leo doesn’t question the fact I’m holding a thermos. The coffee Gabe made is exactly how I like it, and in this mug, it will remain warm all morning.

I don’t know what puzzles me more—that he remembered how I take my coffee, or that he bothered to learn in the first place.

The bruises on my face aren’t as noticeable with concealer applied, but I still catch a few second glances. To avoid the curious gazes, I lose myself in email on my phone.

When I arrive in my office with two coffees, a greasy bagel, and about half my email sorted, I shift the mouse to wake up my monitor to commence work from my desktop.

My login flashes, and I tap out my information on the keyboard.

I freeze at the screen.

A case access audit log. Time stamp: 11:47 PM last night.

I wasn’t here last night. I was home. With Gabe.

Someone logged in as me.

My stomach drops, sharp and sudden. This isn’t just accessing the case—they became me. Using my credentials, my access, my identity to cover their tracks. I should flag this with IT. File a report. Create a paper trail. If I do, whoever is watching will know I saw it.

What did they do?

I open the case file.

At first glance, everything looks correct.

Then I see it. The secondary case tag—gone. The MLAT flag—removed.