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Sophie let out a frustrated huff. “You don’t understand. You haven’t— Since you’ve left the SEALs, you’ve—” She shook her head. Owen felt himself go cold. She hadn’t said it, not fully, but he could hear what was behind the words she was biting back. She thought he didn’t understand what it was like to have a sense of purpose—not since he left the SEALs, anyway. She still saw him coasting through life. Drifting. Not bothering to pursue a steady course like she was.Thatwas what she thought he didn’t understand.
She was kinder about it than his parents and his brothers. At least she tried to hold back the words. But that didn’t stop them from stinging.
“I need to wash the smell of smoke out of my hair,” Sophie muttered before she went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Owen scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed some air and to do his security check. He went out into the night. By the time he returned, most of the lights were out, and Sophie was in bed, her back to him. Should he try to reopen the conversation? He didn’t know, so he got ready for bed and slipped in next to her.
She was asleep. He could tell by her breathing. He was too awake after their fight, so he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. With Sophie, he was in deeper, emotionally, than he’d been with women he’d dated in the past. He’d always kept things casual. What was developing between him and Sophie wasn’t that, and he didn’t know how to negotiate relationship landmines like the one he’d stumbled onto that evening. And he was starting to worry that she didn’t want commitment from him—or that she didn’t think he was capable of offering it.
TWENTY-TWO
Sophie slipped out of bed early, careful not to wake Owen. She’d been fake sleeping when he returned to the cabin the night before, but she had dropped into a restless sleep later. She didn’t like fighting with him, and she missed curling into his warmth. But the conversation the night before had unsettled her. It wasn’t his fault, but so many of the things he and the others had said—about Amy finding something less stressful, less demanding—had reminded her of conversations she’d had with her own family. None of them understood her drive to be a reporter, all of them asked her continuously whether she wouldn’t be happier in something steadier, something calmer.
He’d been so cavalier about the woman giving up a career she’d poured years of time and effort into. Would he react the same way when he realized that this story wasn’t just a one-off, that her work was regularly stressful, dangerous, demanding? She didn’t want to think that it would be a problem. After all, he’d been amazingly supportive so far. But when she heard him encouraging another woman to give up on what she’d worked so hard to achieve, it had set off alarm bells in Sophie’s head. And she couldn’t make them go silent.
Whatever. She needed to focus on the investigation and not get caught up in the emotions. She’d slept with Owen, and it had been great. Okay, it was life-altering and mind-blowing. And she liked him. A lot. But that wasn’t going to pull her off course.
She took her time washing up and getting dressed. By the time she came out of the bathroom, Owen was up and gone, probably for his morning run. When he returned, she was on her laptop and only nodded at him. There. That was civil and cordial enough, which was fine until he came from the bathroom smelling of aftershave, his hair damp, and all of her hormones fired at the same time.
They were just going to have to settle down. With quiet determination, she kept her attention on her email until he came to sit next to her.
“What’s our plan for the day?” he asked.
Why did he have to smell so good? Why did his eyes have to look at her like she was his whole world? If she let them, those things would completely undo her. She had to stay focused on the task at hand.
“I think we should visit Razor again,” she said. “He hasn’t sent that shipping manifest or the pictures he claimed to have on his old phone. Maybe we need to remind him.”
“You’re the boss.” It was said without any animosity at all. She shot him a look, but his face was impassive.
She held back a sigh. “Guess so,” she responded. “You ready to go?”
They managed to chat about the case and the changing season as they drove toward Virginia Beach and Razor’s seedy apartment. She hadn’t been there before, but Owen had so he took the lead going in. Owen’s hand clamped down on her arm as an apartment door stood open just ahead of them.
“Razor’s?” she mouthed and got a nod.
Motioning for her to stay behind him, Owen went into the apartment. Just as they cleared the door, a figure dressed in black pushed past them and sprinted out.
“What was… Oh, god,” she murmured when she saw Razor on the floor. Blood was pouring out of a wound on his chest.
“Shit,” Owen said, his eyes sweeping the room. Fortunately, it was a studio with limited places to hide, making it easy to ascertain that no one else was there. “I’m going after the guy. Close and lock the door behind me.” He was gone a second later, leaving her in the room with the gasping, dying man.
She dropped to her knees beside him, knowing that any first aid was hopeless. “Razor, can you hear me?”
His eyes cracked open, revealing his pain. “Yeah.” His voice was faint.
“Who did this? Who stabbed you?”
“Wil…Wilson.” Razor managed to move his arm. “Look.”
Sophie followed the motion and saw a bloody knife under the edge of the sofa. She didn’t know which was more alarming. Seeing a murdered man and finding the weapon used or knowing that Wilson was capable of killing someone directly, in cold blood. She knew he was evil, but this put him in a whole different category.
She reached for Razor’s hand and held it, giving what comfort she could and blaming herself the entire time. She’d been the one to pull Razor into her investigation and insist on meeting with him. Had she gotten the man killed. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“Soph.” Owen pounded on the door. Reluctantly, she let go of Razor’s hand and let him in. “Didn’t catch him.” Owen went to the dying man and quickly assessed his wound. When he didn’t render any first aid, Sophie knew her instincts were right. There was nothing to be done. “What can you tell us?”
“Wilson,” Razor’s voice was a harsh whisper.
“I tracked him to the parking lot, but he took off before I could get him. I will. I promise you that.”
