Page 13 of Archer

The plot thickened with every mile as my busy mind conjured a litany of possible scenarios that could put her in harm’s way. Abusive ex? Owed money to the mob? Stole the Declaration of Independence? I blamed the last one on Colton’s obsession with movies from the early 2000s, and too much time spent cooped up with him overseas.

I swallowed the too-familiar irritation of another woman intentionally endangered by a man, forcibly separating this potential client’s situation from memories of my sister’s battered face on a video call when I was a world away.

I couldn’t help my sister in that moment, but I could help this woman now.

Maybe it was the fear in her eyes, or the way she’d tried so hard to be brave while clearly terrified, but my gut said she wasn’t the problem. She was the one in trouble, just as she’d claimed.

A lifetime of being a big brother and an adulthood spent serving our country had solidified my weakness for anyone in distress. Especially tiny, frightened women who asked me for help.

Even one who’d probably lied about her name.

Chapter 6

Archer

Shore Drive featured an equal blend of old Carolina Bay charm and new-money excess.

I passed three massive vacation rentals before I found 4792, a cottage that looked as if it had been there since the 1950s.

Small, with weathered cedar shingles, it looked so much like part of the landscape that I drove right past it and had to shift into reverse, even after reviewing the satellite image earlier. The place was set back from its neighbors, surrounded by sea oats and scrub brush. The wraparound porch had matching red rocking chairs and big white window boxes for flowers.

I parked beside the battered truck Sarah had driven to Island Adventures, then climbed out with an intentional slam of my door. No need to startle her when I knocked.

Scents of salt and sand hung in the winter air. Waves crashed somewhere beyond the bracketing dunes.

The curtain in the front window moved. She’d gotten the message. I was here.

I scrutinized the exterior, familiarizing myself. The cottage had decent bones but terrible security. Single story, an abundance of windows, beach access in back. Dunes ready to provide shelter to burglars and thieves.

A security consultant’s nightmare.

Not ideal for someone being followed, either.

I walked the perimeter before approaching the front door, taking mental note of every vulnerability. One window had a gap where the frame didn’t quite meet the sill. The back door’s lock looked original to the house.

Anyone determined to get inside could do it, unnoticed, in under sixty seconds.

I climbed the front porch steps and knocked. Then, I sent a text to the number she’d used to contact me.

Archer: Made it here early. I’m at your door.

Silence.

Then the sound of a lock turning.

The door opened a crack, the dinky, security chain still engaged. One hazel eye peered through the gap.

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah.” I hadn’t thought about the possibility she’d be freaked out by the idea of allowing me inside alone. “Can I come in? Or would you prefer to talk outside?”

The door closed. Two long beats later, the chain rattled, and the door swung open.

She’d ditched the hat and sunglasses. Without them, I got my first clear look at her face.

Beautiful. The word hit me again, harder this time.

She had a heart-shaped face with full lips currently pressed into a worried line. Those hazel eyes were narrow now, apparently attempting to see straight through me. And the freckles. Wicked freckles, scattered across her nose and cheeks like someone had taken a paintbrush and gone to town. Not good for me. At all.