Chapter 10
TEN
Caleb
Staying half a step behind Brooke, we move through the open bay, where welding sparks flash from a back corner. Someone curses over the low country music playing from an old radio—just loud enough to cover footsteps or the sound of trouble walking in.
Eyes track us as guys pretend not to look while making sure we're seen. Nothing says "legitimate business" quite like a shop full of mechanics who've suddenly developed an interest in the ceiling.
A guy steps out from behind a stripped Charger, wiping his hands on a rag. Tall and lean, late fifties with prison tattoos.
Brooke moves toward him with confidence, unshaken in a way that puts everyone a little on edge, probably because most people who walk in don't look like they have a choice in the matter.
"Weston. You looking for something?" he says.
She lifts her chin. "Rev, I need a car…"
His gaze shifts to me, but he doesn't ask questions, just jerks his head toward the back room. Smart man. In his line of work, curiosity probably isn't a survival trait.
I stay close enough to intercept anything or anyone unexpected.
The office is cramped with stale smoke, a metal desk, beat-up chair, and a dented filing cabinet in the corner.
Rev pulls out a ring of keys from his top drawer without questions or hesitation.
Either he trusts Brooke completely, or he's got enough practice in the no-questions-asked business to make it look easy.
"Back lot. Silver Camry," he says, voice like gravel. "Tag's clean. Gas tank's half full. Try not to bring it back wrecked."
I take the keys as Brooke gives him a nod, calm like this is just another errand. "Thanks. I'll get it back to you as soon as I can."
He squints slightly. "You on the lam?"
"Just trying to stay incognito."
The flicker in his eye shifts to suspicion as his gaze slides back to me, his shoulders squaring as he settles his weight into his feet like he's bracing for impact .
"And you are?" he asks, tone flat.
Holding his stare, I answer simply. "Keeping her safe."
He doesn't respond, just shifts slightly—nothing big, just enough to place his body between Brooke and me, like instinct made the call for him. Protective. I can respect that, even if it's aimed at me.
Brooke clears her throat, effectively gaining his attention, "Have you seen your daughter?"
He flinches slightly. "Not since Christmas." His fists clench at his sides. "She's still using, far as I know. Living out of her car."
Brooke's expression softens. "I'd hoped the overdose would have been enough… are you still helping out?"
"Yeah," he says, quieter now. "Every Thursday night beneath the 22nd Street overpass we set up—outreach meals, Narcan kits, whatever we can scrape together.
Fridays I drive to the sober houses. Mostly drop-offs.
Sometimes they let me pray with 'em. It's not much, but I figure if I can stand where they are, maybe they'll know they're not alone. "
So that’s where he earned the nickname “Rev”. It’s not just a reference to his affinity for stolen cars.
"I’m praying for you," Brooke says. “For both of you,” she adds.
He doesn’t get a chance to respond. The phone rings, and I take that as our cue to exit.
Before we can leave, Rev catches my attention. “ You watch over this one. My girl is alive because of her.”
I offer him my hand and he pumps it before showing us where to find the car.
As we exit, my hand brushes the grip of my weapon, but my head's not on threats anymore.
It's on how Brooke Weston moves left when I expect right, and about how I can't protect what I can't predict.
Brooke
The gravel crunches under our tires as Caleb parks around back, near the gated side entrance of the Sunday school building. As I expected, no one is here.
I dig through my bag and pull out a key. It's bent slightly at the end but still works. I used to help with the Wednesday night kids’ program, and Pastor Joe never took me off the access list.
“No one comes back here unless they're supposed to.”
Caleb doesn't argue. Instead, he scans the lot like danger might sprout from the asphalt. “You’re sure no one else has a key?”
“Just staff. And they’re not the kind to snoop.”
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods once. “Lead the way. ”
The room isn't much: a musty, windowless basement space tucked behind the youth wing. It holds only a locking door, a folding cot, and a few plastic chairs meant for Sunday school kids. Bible verse posters still hang crooked on the walls beside faded missionary updates.
It’s not a safe house, not in the Hightower sense.
But it’s a sanctuary.
Caleb drops the bags inside and immediately starts scanning the room, checking the hinges, the vent grates, the bolt lock. I sit on the cot, acutely aware of the tension humming in my chest and vibrating between us.
“He exaggerated,” I say instead. “Rev. I didn’t do anything special. I just called 911 and hung around to let the EMTs know who her next of kin was.”
Caleb doesn't look at me, still checking the last corner. “Not everyone would have bothered.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I was just in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
He finally stops moving, and his gaze meets mine. “You saved her life. Don’t downplay that.”
I try again. “I’m not, but I don’t want you to think I’m boasting about it either.”
He crosses his arms. “I don’t.”
Just two words. Firm and unbending. Not dismissive, but not open either. It leaves me standing in the middle of the conversation, unsure whether we’ve landed or just circled back to where we started .
This isn’t going the way I planned, so I change the subject. “Maybe we should talk about what our next move is.”
He nods. “Agreed. The driver is following you for a reason. I’m trying to decide whether that reason is because they think you have the file, which makes sense, or they know Eliza had it on the trail.”
I grip the edge of the counter, mind catching up to what he’s saying. “Could they know she threw it away?”
“Possibly. But that would mean they followed her that night. No sense they’d allow her to meet with you if that was the case.”
I nod, but doubt claws at me. “So… we’re going back to look for the file, right?”
“When Mateo gets back. We’ll go.”
I feel a surge of triumph. Even if it nets us zero.
Caleb resumes his sentry post, and I glance at my phone. Seven missed calls, and three are from Mom.
No wonder she called Mick.
I shift my weight, grab my phone, and stand. “I need to call my mom back.”
He pulls out his own phone. “No problem. I have a few calls to make myself. I can wait outside. But don’t mention the tires or being shot at, eh?”
Before I can say I’m not that stupid, he slips into the hallway.
The silence he leaves behind buzzes through my chest like an echo .
Oh boy. Where to start?
The phone doesn’t even ring twice.
“Finally, she calls!” Mom’s voice bursts through the speaker.
“Sorry. I’m… buried in a story.”
“Oh, Brooke. One of these days… there is more to life than work.”
“I know. But this is a big one. I have to see this through.” I glance at the door. Caleb’s shadow stretches under the crack, stationary, vigilant.
Mom sighs. “Have you heard from Samantha? I want to talk to her about the reception.”
After accepting that I’m not Samantha’s keeper any more than I am my brother’s, she prattles on for a while about my brother’s upcoming nuptials, while I pace the room and try not to think about Eliza.
If I start thinking about how she’ll never get to have a wedding, I won’t be able to hide my grief from Mom.
I’m not sure if I’m pleased when she suddenly changes the subject. Slightly.
“Oh! I almost forgot. There’s a lovely man who just joined the church. You can take him to the wedding. It’ll be fun.”
Horror shrieks through me like a fire alarm. “No!”
The word bursts out faster than I can catch it. Too loud, but absolutely necessary.
Blind dates are where dignity goes to die. I’ve survived men who only talked about their protein powder routines, one who brought a board game to dinner, and another who showed up in Crocs and tried to evangelize the waiter.
“I mean,” I add, scrambling to soften the explosion, “that’s really kind of you. But no. Just… no.”
Please don’t let her ask why.
“Why?” she says.
I groan.
Panicked, my eyes shoot to the door. I need something good. Really good. Something to throw her off the scent.
“Er… I met someone. He’s… interesting.”
Mom sucks in a sharp breath. “Who?”
“Um…” I glance toward the door again, now frantic. “He’s a friend of Mick’s.”
“I don’t believe you. You think all of Mick’s friends are morons.”
I snort. “Okay, I did say that once. But this is… um, someone he knows through work?” My voice pitches on the last word and comes out sounding more like a question than it should.
The second it’s out, I regret it.
Because now there’s silence.
And silence is never safe with church women.
Her voice lights up as if I've just handed her the final puzzle piece of a ten-year prayer chain. I can practically hear her rearranging her matchmaker strategy in real time .
“But you said you’re interested?”
I chew my lip. “Caleb is…an interesting guy.”
“Is he handsome?”
“Mom!”
“If you’re going to convince me this is real, you’re going to have to tell me all about him.”
Oh wow. She’s really making me do this over the phone. “Then yes. He’s… ruggedly handsome. Jacked. Quietly charming. I mean, he’s infuriating. Bossy. Always five steps ahead of me. But also calm. Capable. Strong. Humble. He prays before meals.”
“Jacked?”
“Oh… it just means he has big muscles.”
“Oh dear,” she says, and I can practically hear her beaming. “Looks like my prayers have been answered.”
“Mom, I just said don’t set me up?—”
A quiet sound behind me makes me pause.
I turn and freeze.
The door is cracked open.
Of course he didn’t close it completely.
Caleb is standing just outside, one hand braced on the frame. His face unreadable.