Chapter 2
TWO
Caleb
While Brooke showers, I re-check the rest of the tiny house, making sure windows and doors are locked, then rig a trip wire from fishing line across the back window and wedge a folding chair under the front doorknob.
It’s not until I step into Brooke’s spare room that the full weight of staying in her home hits me.
Like everything else in the house, the bedroom is distinctly feminine. Even more so than Brooke’s own style. With pale purple walls, white furniture, and a scattering of snow globes and knick-knacks, it looks like a little girl’s room.
With a head shake, I unzip my bag and haul out the basic equipment I packed. It should be enough to set up an in-house security system and keep an eye on the neighborhood .
Yawning, I sit on the edge of the single bed and unlace my boots. My chest aches, a dull throb, and I’m regretting not sleeping on the plane.
I throw the covers back and stand frozen as I assess the linens. Strawberries dot the white sheets, and a cutesy girl with a strawberry plant on her head is plastered all over the pillows. "Seriously?" I mutter.
With a sigh, I flick the light off, undress in the dark, and slide under the covers.
A cloying waft of perfume fills my nostrils, almost choking me in its intensity. In the dark, I stare up at the dark, timbered ceiling. "Is this a test, Lord?"
I shouldn’t be here in this dainty little house. Brooke sure doesn’t want me here, and I’m still confounded why Silas thought I was the right man for this assignment.
Switching the lamp back on, I reach for my Hightower-issue Bible. The cover’s worn smooth, corners dog-eared, seams splitting. I flip past the front page, ink smudged from too many nights like this.
Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle. Psalm 144:1 . Block letters. Top of the page. First thing I ever wrote in this Bible. Still true.
A few lines down, another verse—underlined twice, the pen pressed hard.
Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends .
John 15:13 . There’s a name next to it. Crossed out now.
I turn the page. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. The righteous are bold as a lion. Romans 12. Proverbs 28. Scrawled in all caps—one of those nights I’d rather not revisit.
Near the bottom, nearly faded away: Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.
Micah 6:8 .
Most nights, these verses anchor me. Tonight, they feel more like a lifeline I’m barely holding on to.
Beside me, my phone blips, and I smile, knowing there’s only one person who’d be awake this time of night. Sure enough, it’s Delilah.
Howdy! Are you trying to sleep?
Nope. How’s Samantha’s induction going?
Great! Verity let her blow something up tonight.
Sure that’s a good idea?
Oh pish. It was perfectly safe.
Promise?
Pinky promise. So how’s Brooke? Is she freaked?
I glance at the door, frowning at how not freaked Brooke seems.
She’s cool as a cucumber.
And that’s what is most concerning about this. Brooke literally writes the news—she can’t be oblivious to the evil in this world.
Wow. She’d fit right in with Verity, Sam, and Adena. I’d be peeing my pants.
I chuckle quietly.
Me too
A yawn overtakes me just as I hear a door close in the room next to me. Brooke. Going to bed after her shower.
I put the Bible to one side. Something isn’t sitting right, and it’s not just the stale burrito I ate on the plane.
I get independent women, but meeting a stranger in the dark with no backup? It’s beyond reckless. I try to relax, but can't shake off the feeling I’m missing something vital. About the threat. About Brooke. About why my chest tightens every time I think about her in danger.
Can you do me a favor before you hit the hay? Check and see if Brooke’s ever had anything happen like this before?
Her reply comes back swiftly.
Need to get some sleep dude, but I’ll let you know around 11 a.m. I’m still going through the info Sam gave us. I still can’t believe she was sitting on that. It must have been worth squillions.
Neither can I. And I’m still slightly in awe of how God has worked to change her heart. I’ve seen some rapid-fire conversions, but Samantha Duke’s was literally in the midst of battle when hers happened.
I let Delilah get to bed, and when my mind won’t still, I pray silently, praising God but asking Him to lead me over the coming days.
My brain flip-flops around, and I wind up back on Brooke, thinking about how and why she has no fear about meeting a total stranger in the dark.
She’s not stupid. Anything but. But the decisions she’s making are.
“Forget it, peabrain,” I mutter. “You’re not here to judge her lifestyle. ”
I toss the extra pillow on the other side of the bed and pray the Lord will grant me sleep. But deep down, I know what’s keeping me awake isn’t the unfamiliar room, the strawberry sheets, or even the threat we’re facing.
It’s the growing certainty that protecting Brooke is going to require me to risk more than just my life.
Brooke
Head full of sleep and body heavy, I throw back the covers, yawning and stretching as I grab my phone off my nightstand.
Morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the cluttered dresser and the pile of clothes I'd abandoned on the chair before I climbed exhausted into bed.
My fingers fumble across the smooth screen, searching for any sign of hope.
Nothing.
It's official. My contact has gone to ground, and with her, the biggest story of my career has just slipped through my fingers.
My already foul mood darkens further when I open my door and spot signs the bathroom's been used.
Caleb.
The wooden floor creaks under my irritated steps as I shuffle toward the bathroom, my reflection catching briefly in the hallway mirror.
With a grunt, I slam the door harder than necessary and go about my ablutions with a level of attitude I know I'll have to repent of later.
I was so sure God wanted me on this story. Maybe I was wrong?
I scrub my face, brush my teeth, and exit, already rehearsing how to politely ask Caleb to scram.
But as I enter the kitchen, I stop short, frozen by the sight of a massive man—shirt fitted, sidearm holstered—flipping pancakes.
He’s humming “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
The corner of my mouth tugs up despite myself. I watch as he expertly flips and stacks the pancakes, then covers them in foil to keep warm.
Apparently, he’s noticed me. Without looking up, still adjusting the temperature on the pan, he says, “Figured since I’m cramping your style, least I could do is make your pancakes.”
I drop into the nearest chair and rest my chin in my hands. “Well, thanks. Did you sleep okay?”
His mouth pulls down. “Like a baby. Except for the Strawberry Shortcake sheets and whatever they were doused in.”
A snort of laughter escapes, dislodging my annoyance. “I forgot those were still on the bed. I had a friend and her daughter stay over. We found the sheets at a thrift store. I added some essential oils to make them extra girly.”
He shakes his head. “I noticed.”
So that’s why he was up at the crack of dawn showering. Scrubbing off lavender and sugar cookie.
As he finishes the last pancake, I get up and pull out the coffee supplies.
“Have you seen the footage yet?”
He glances over his shoulder. “I have. Thought we’d eat first, then I’ll walk you through it.”
“Can’t you just tell me? I have to be at work in an hour.”
He doesn’t answer right away—too busy flipping the final pancake. When he does, it’s not what I want to hear.
“I think you should call in sick.”
I choke out a laugh and pour two mugs of coffee. “No way. I have work to do.”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He sets the pancake plate on the table.
“Let’s eat. Then we’ll talk.”
I retake my seat, glancing toward the window. My nosy neighbors are going to have a field day if they spot him. If this gets back to my parents...
He gestures for me to serve myself first. I drizzle syrup as he sips his coffee.
“Do you do this often?” I ask.
“Cook pancakes? ”
“Insist on protecting women who aren’t actually in danger.”
He shoots me a scowl. “You don’t know that.”
I’m not going to get into an argument this early in the morning, so I deflect. “Why did Silas send you? I’d have thought you were overqualified for this position.”
He pats his chest. “I have an injury. Think this is Silas’s way of making sure I stay out of the Hightower gym for a few days.”
Of course. There had to be more to it than Mick just wanting someone intimidating around.
“How’d you get hurt?”
“Ripped a pec benching two-forty.”
My mouth drops open. “You bench two-forty? Is that… normal?”
He nods and takes a bite of pancake.
“Maybe try less weight next time.”
He shrugs his massive shoulders. “New technique threw me off.”
Since he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, I focus on my pancakes and coffee, trying to map out the day.
Once I’ve cleared my plate, I wait for him to finish before diving in.
“How did you get the surveillance footage?”
He pushes his plate aside and picks up his coffee. “I have friends in high places.”
I scowl. “Such as? ”
He waggles his eyebrows and stands. “You finished?”
I nod. He grabs my plate and carries both to the sink.
He rinses the dishes. “Could you grab my laptop off the bed? I’ll load the footage.”
With a sigh, I fetch it from the spare room. The laptop is bulkier than most and enclosed in some kind of protective shell, grit and dust caked around the edges. I set it on the table and wait.
He returns, taps in a password, and motions me to look over his shoulder. The grainy feed of the parking lot appears. He speeds it up, and we watch cars come and go, families leaving the pickleball courts, dog walkers, the usual shuffle.
“Here’s where you arrive,” he says, tapping the screen.
Sure enough, my Honda pulls in under the lamp. A few minutes later, I get out and walk toward the park.
He pauses the footage. “This is where it gets interesting. Watch the van.”
On-screen, a van appears. Headlights bright against the darkened lot. I hold my breath as the driver pulls in beside my car and idles the van.
Seconds tick by until a few minutes have passed, then the door opens. I hold my breath as a man climbs out, dressed in black, a ski mask covering his face, and a knife visible in his hand .
With a quick glance around the parking lot, he bends down, casually slashes my driver’s side tire, then systematically cuts through the remaining rubber before climbing back into his van.
The whole thing takes less than a minute.
Caleb freezes the footage and glances at me. “He was right behind you. No doubt in my mind he was following you.”
I sink into my chair, chewing on my lip as I try to remember noticing anyone following me last night. I doubt I even looked. I was too focused on getting to the park on time.
Caleb’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “This wasn’t some punk. He bypassed the tread and went straight for the sidewalls, had a fixed-blade knife, and he did it fast. That takes skill.”
“You think it takes skill to slash tires?”
He gives me a clipped nod. “Tires can spit back pressure when they’re punctured,” he says. “He angled his body—kept clear. He’s done it before.”
I blow out a breath. “So I’m the victim of a serial tire slasher? Wonderful.”
Caleb’s brow draws tight. “Did you drive from home?”
“No,” I murmur, “Work.”
His jaw turns to steel. “Then you need to work from home today.”
“I can’t. I have an interview. And my editor already hates me. ”
“Why does he hate you?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might be relevant.”
“It might be none of your business.”
His mouth twitches.
“Fine. I may have accused him of bias.”
That gets his attention. He leans back, scratching his chin. “Go on.”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “He thinks truth isn’t objective, just ‘culturally dependent.’”
Caleb adjusts his position. “That’s rough. But you’re in the world’s system. If you want to work in it, you have to play by their rules.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. It’s getting harder and harder to do my job. We used to hunt for the truth. Now we twist it to please advertisers.
“I’ll call him. But I still need to get to that interview. I haven’t even checked the news yet.”
“Where’s the interview?”
“At a retirement village. I’m writing a fluff piece on it, but I had an anonymous tip that the care isn’t what it should be.”
“You’re interviewing the staff?”
“I have an appointment with the manager. We’ve spoken before, but I’m hoping to find a way to talk to some of the residents too.”
“Find a way?”
I toy with my coffee cup. “You know… get sneaky. ”
He nods slowly, his expression sharpening again. “I’ll come with you. I can be your cameraman or something.”
I laugh. “No way. You’ll scare people off.”
His gaze flicks to the laptop, then back to me. A slow grin spreads across his face, completely disarming.
“Don’t worry. I’ll blend right in,” he says, and winks.