Chapter 10
Grayson
As I watched Hale’s taillights disappear into the night with my jaw tight, I silently cursed myself for letting her see me so soon.
After spending the morning dealing with Sheriff Dipshit, I spent the afternoon in my hotel room, going over Hale’s file once more, giving her one more day in this quiet coastal town. Once that was done, Jake called me to confirm she had purchased a house with her large trust fund and finalized the paperwork with the title company. She was quick to settle somewhere, that was for damn sure. I don’t know what compelled her to choose this town, and it puzzled me.
This town wasn’t lavish. It certainly didn’t fit her past lifestyle. Carrie Hale was the daughter of a wealthy asshole and, given her simple profile and her mental break, I had her figured out.
Her perfect little life had been turned upside down, and now, she was running away.
After I finished reviewing her file once more, I pulled up the floor plans to her home and drove over in the afternoon to do some re-con. I didn’t bother going inside just yet only surveying the outside of the home for now. Sitting in the Tahoe, I received a call from Jake, who told me the house Hale had purchased was once owned by Michael and Sarah Humbly.
That was why he didn’t want me to know where she was— he was fucking helping her.
Back at the police station, he’d told me that unless there was a warrant out for her arrest or she was danger to society, he couldn’t tell me where she was. Of course, him saying that just confirmed she was still in town, and the charges had finally hit her bank account, making things easier for me.
He also didn’t appreciate that I’d pulled my gun out to have that conversation.
Was it pointed at him? No.
Should it have been? I was beginning to think so.
Now, here I was, standing in the night after seeing her for the first time, and I was hesitant, not to mention the feeling I felt when I saw the man she was talking to before she’d gotten into her car. She’d only been in this town for a week and was already dating.
That bothered me.
It shouldn’t have but it did. A lot.
I didn’t like the way the fisherman was looking at her. I didn’t like how he sat across from her at dinner, smiling at her, looking at her chest whenever she wasn’t looking.
Another thing that fucking floored me was the fact that she was more stunning in person. For that reason alone, no normal, red-blooded male could blame the man for pursuing her. Still, it made me want to kill him.
Why in the fuck did I want to kill him?
Hale was just a goddamn mark.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, pushing off the light post and walking back to my Tahoe as I pulled out my phone. Before she and the man came out of the restaurant, I’d tagged her bumper with one of my cheaper trackers. Pulling up the app, I watched as she made her way across the small town, heading further and further away from her house. Sighing, I got into the vehicle, and followed her.
Ten minutes later, I came up to a simple one-story home, warms light flooding outside from the windows. My eyes went to Hale’s car in the driveway before snapping back to the side windows in search of her. The house was on a steeper hill than the one Hale was staying in, the front of it turned slightly away from my viewpoint, giving me a good view of the back deck.
I leaned back in my seat, spreading my knees as I kept my eyes on the sliding glass door at the back of the home. Two minutes passed before Hale came into view—with none other than Sarah Humbly. My eyes narrowed, and before I could help myself, I was pulling out my laptop and running a background check on the couple.
Michael Humbly was a straight shooter, and everything he’d told me this morning was true. His wife, Sarah, was clean as well.
Flexing my hand, I looked back up to house, my eyes landing directly on Hale.
Her hair was curlier than in her photos, somewhat brighter. Her blonde wasn’t a golden blonde, having more of a white tone to it. It was unique and made her stand out in the crowd.
That irritated me too.
So many fucking things about Carrie fucking Hale irritated the ever-living shit out of me, and I couldn’t figure out why.
I pulled out my phone and called Ash.
“Doss,” he answered.
“Call Jeremy Jones and tell him Hale will be back in St. Louis within forty-eight hours,” I ordered, keeping my eyes on the target as she smiled at Sarah. My muscles tightened at the sight, and I wanted to fucking kill something. My mind drifted back to the fisherman…
“On it. Anything else? You sound off,” Ash said, reading me like an open fucking book.
“Just ready to get this job done and move on. How are things on your end?”
“Working on a few things here and there, but nothing major,” he told me.
“Right,” I muttered, rubbing my jaw.
“So you found her, yeah?”
“Yes,” I pushed out through clenched teeth. Yes, I fucking found her, and I haven’t been the same since.
“Good. Oh—Mags called for you today.”
Mags calling me at the office was an old habit of his. He never called my cell in case I was on a job. I would always call him. “You answer?”
“Nah, Dominic did.”
Hale and Sarah made their way out onto the deck illuminated with hanging lights. The warm light on Hale’s skin made her hair seem…unreal. I watched her as she explained something to her new friend, taking in her body language. She seemed comfortable but still reserved, like she had been with the blond man earlier.
“Grayson? You still there?” Ash asked, breaking the spell I’d been under.
Clearing my throat, I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, I told him to remain on standby for the night. I was nabbing the target, taking her back home, and leaving this fucking town behind me.
After I ended the call, I drove over to her house and picked the lock at the back door.
Something inside me didn’t like that she didn’t have a security system, but I brushed it off, reminded myself that she wouldn’t be staying here much longer.
The smell of berries filled my nose as the floorboards creaked underneath my weight, my boots carrying me across the kitchen, into the living room. I looked back to the kitchen, noting how clean it was, then back to the living room. My eyes landed on the vase filled with red tulips on the windowsill beside the couch, reminding me of something her therapist had said in her file.
Day 120: Patient asked for some flowers to be put into her room—again. She complains about not having enough color. This is the eightieth time she has requested flowers.
My hand formed into a fist at my side, and the longer I stared, the more irritated I became.
“Get it together, Grayson,” I whispered, pulling my gaze from the flowers and walking over to the small hallway to find a small half bath and an empty room. Inside the spare room, I spotted a closet. Something inside me told me to look, and I wasn’t a man who overlooked shit. Pulling open the closet door, my eyes dropped to the floor to find two cans of unopened paint and new paint supplies. The walls in this room were white, and she was planning on painting them…pink.
Why the fuck would she paint the room pink?
“Of all the fucking colors in the world…” I mumbled, closing the closet door before heading up the narrow stairway.
I halted at the top of the stairs, my eyes on her feminine bed, taking in the flowers and how her bed was made. It looked like something out of one of those home decor magazines that Hayes’ sister always bought. Perfect, not one thing out of place, something to be proud of. This surprised me. I was fully expecting her bedroom to look like the aftermath of a tornado. The notes from her stay at the rehab indicated she was a messy person.
What if everything in her file was wrong?
I looked over the window seat next, spotting her laptop and a single notebook. I moved, not stopping until the notebook was in my hands. Without a second thought or giving one single fuck about her privacy, I opened it. My chest stilled as I read the first entry.
This was her journal.
She was keeping a fucking journal.
She thought she was a prisoner?
A twinge of discomfort formed in my chest as I flipped the page, reading the next entry about her being pulled over by Sheriff Humbly, meeting his wife, and getting this house. My brows came together as I pieced together the timeline of her time in Astoria. She’d had a stroke of fucking luck, that was for damn sure. I took a seat on her window bench, scooting her laptop to the side as I continued reading.
I needed to know why she felt like a prisoner.
I didn’t need some doctor’s diagnosis or the crime photos of her husband’s murder. I needed to hear it from Carrie.
Why? The fuck if I knew. As my jaw jumped, I went on to read to the third entry.
Her handwriting in the second part of the entry was rushed, like she had to scribble everything down before she ran out of time.
In one hand, I was holding her journal, her delicate, chaotic writing filling the pages. In the other hand, my fist was gripping the note she had received the second day she was here.
My eyes stared at the words, scratched in a deep red ink. Whoever wrote this note said she was going to get what was coming to her.
“Fuck,” I bit out, tossing the journal onto the seat beside me as I surged up, yanking out my phone in the process. I called Ash, and he answered on the first ring.
“What do you need?” he asked, no bullshit.
“The target is in danger,” I seethed, my heart booming inside my chest as something else twisted in my soul.
What the fuck was this?
“What?” he shot back, sounding more alert. “Do you need backup?”
I paced back and forth in front of her pretty bed, my presence alone tainting its perfection. “No. The extraction is set. I’ll be on the road soon,” I told him.
“Do you need me to—”
“No,” I cut him off, running a hand through my hair. “Don’t—don’t do anything. This isn’t our job. The objective is to get her and nothing more.” I shook my head, turning back around to pace, my mind running rapidly. I don’t know why I’d even called him in the first place. This wasn’t a part of the fucking job. Why was I so fucking worried? As soon as she was back in St. Louis, she would be safe. Jeremy Jones would make damn sure of that.
He can’t protect her like I can.
“Grayson?” Ash called, sounding unsure.
“What?” I barked, crushing the note in my hand, my muscles tense. I wanted to shoot something.
“If you don’t want me to do anything, then why did you call?”
His question settled into me, and I slowly came to a stop, facing the bench. The feeling in my chest grew more, and I felt a drop of sweat trickling down the back of my neck. “I…” I trailed off.
Why did I call?
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
“Of course,” I responded, shaking it off. “I just needed to update you, that’s all. I’ll call you when we’re on the road.”
He was silent for a moment. “You don’t sound like—”
“Enough,” I growled, silencing him. I wasn’t getting into this with him or anyone— ever . As soon as she was back where she belonged, the better. I didn’t have the fucking time for this shit. “It was just a fucking update,” I told him.
“Roger that. Just an update.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone without a second thought before shoving my hands into my hair, chest heaving as I stared into the night.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
Why did I fucking care about this fucking woman—this stranger?
My mind drifted back to the details of her husband’s murder, the reports of her screaming for him in the hospital in the middle of the night. I bent my head, closing my eyes as pictures of her slashed wrists flashed in my mind.
After a few minutes, I lifted my head again, staring at the journal as I wondered—if I wasn’t extracting her tonight, would she have written about me? The stranger lingering in the dark, staring back at her?
“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing a hand down my face. I needed to get my shit together. I straightened her laptop and journal to how she had it before I invaded her privacy and made my way downstairs, taking a seat on her couch in the darkness.
Then, I waited.