Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Brooke
I barely have time to catch my breath before Caleb ends the most intense kiss I've ever experienced. My lips still feel bruised. My pulse still thrums too fast. There's a fluttering tightness in my chest I can't quite name, something between awe and panic.
What is wrong with me? I am not the sort of person who engages in sizzling kisses in a hospital room.
My legs feel unsteady, like I might melt right into the polished floor if he weren't walking beside me.
We stop outside Mateo's room. Caleb opens the door quietly, his hand on the small of my back, reassuring, protective, and possessive in a way that's proof we've already crossed the line. The warmth of his palm through my shirt makes me shiver, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him .
Mateo's out cold. Flat on his back, breathing slow and even, one arm in a sling, the other tangled in wires and tubing. His skin is pale, his mouth slack. The drugs are doing their job. I don't know if I'm relieved or heartsick.
Samantha has positioned herself near the head of the bed, arms folded, gaze fixed on the monitors like she can will him better just by watching hard enough. She smiles when she sees me. "You have a cute home."
I pull her into a hug, which she returns a little awkwardly. "This is why you and Mick have been so cagey with me."
She gives a sheepish shrug and gestures to Mateo. "Doctor says he'll be under for hours. I can stay for as long as you need me."
Caleb nods. "Thanks. For hustling. You were great back there. All your hard work is paying off."
She offers him a small smile, genuine and shy. A far cry from the hardened con woman I met in the Everglades.
She's changed. And she's going to be part of our family. Soon, if my brother has anything to say about it.
I shift my weight, suddenly unsure what to do with myself. Everyone has a role to play except for me.
Eliza is dead. Mateo’s been shot, and I'm just... kissing Caleb? I smooth my hair self-consciously, wondering if I look as rattled as I feel.
"I want to help," I say. "There has to be something I can do."
Caleb's eyes meet mine, and his mouth quirks up. “If a job opening comes up, I'll let you know.”
Before I can reply, a voice cuts in behind me. "We meet again, Ms. Weston."
I turn, my pulse jumping. Detective Crowley.
"You want to tell me why people keep shooting at you?" he asks.
I glance at Caleb, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. A nervous habit I can't seem to shake. "Guess I rubbed someone the wrong way."
Crowley doesn't smile. "Not funny. I'm one step away from putting you in protective custody."
I wince, ready to defend myself, but his attention shifts to Caleb. "Mind if we talk?"
Caleb's jaw tightens. "Could use some coffee anyway."
They move a few paces down the hall, far enough that I can't hear them, close enough that I can't stop watching.
I sit on a molded plastic chair that's been bolted to the wall, trying to look calm. Normal. But I feel anything but. My hands smooth over my jeans, a restless gesture that betrays how unsettled I am.
Their conversation continues in low, urgent tones. Caleb's posture is tense, his shoulders rigid. Whatever they're discussing, it's not going well.
Samantha leans over and nudges my shoulder. “How well do you know Detective Crowley?”
I look sidelong at her. “Not that well. Why?”
She flicks her hair over her shoulder and lowers her voice. “Caleb is making him nervous.”
I assess them again. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s tapping his thumb, scanning the room too frequently, breaking eye contact, but he’s unnaturally still. That one is a dead giveaway. He’s trying to appear composed. He’s not.”
“You noticed all that?”
Sam’s brow lifts, a flicker of enjoyment on her face. “Why else do you think Hightower recruited me?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out!” I say.
Our conversation is cut short when Caleb nods curtly and Crowley stalks off down the hallway. When Caleb returns to my side, he doesn’t have pleasant news.
"They're posting a patrol at your house," he says. "Marked unit out front.”
"They want me to go home," I say flatly.
"They're not making it a demand. Yet. But if you don't play along…" He glances down the corridor.
My gut clenches. "We need to find that file."
He nods, scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I can find it. Reese just arrived. He can help. ”
I squint at him. “Oh really? Reese doesn’t know where Eliza was when she threw it away.” I hastily add, “Neither do you.”
He fastens me with a loaded look. Then sighs heavily. "Fine. There’s a motel close by. I’ll get us a room. We’ll look first thing tomorrow."
Caleb
I hate this plan.
Hate that Brooke is out in the open. Hate that I’m in the same place I was the night she was shot at.
Mostly, I hate that she’s right. I don’t have a fixed idea of where Eliza was, but I get the feeling that it’s seared into Brooke’s memory. Along with a record of everything I’ve gotten wrong to date.
I barely slept. Hard to when the most beautiful woman you’ve ever clapped eyes on is in the same room.
Reese meets us at the fence with a black hard case—quick-pull gear, field-ready. Gloves, trowel, folding knife, shears.
"We need eyes on the ridge," I tell him. "Anyone hits the trail from the north, I want to know before their boots touch dirt."
"Copy that." Reese is already tracking the terrain. "Two access points from up there. Main trail curves east, but there's a game path that drops straight down. I'll have visibility on both."
We don't have time to be thorough. The cops expect her home. Every extra minute out here is a risk we can't afford, and if someone's watching, we'll end up answering questions we're not ready for.
"Focus on natural catch points," I tell her. "She flung it, didn't aim. Look for snag zones—brush, roots, dips."
Brooke nods, but I can see the pressure wearing on her. This isn't just about finding the truth, it's about staying ahead of the people who think we've found it.
I hit the outer edge of the wash and scan for irregularities. The terrain is deceptive—what looks flat from a distance reveals itself as a maze of small gullies and raised sections, places where water carves temporary channels during monsoon season.
We sweep in silence, the weight of time pressing in. Brooke moves just ahead, scanning under brush, circling the bench again.
She kneels near a mound of packed earth, brushing aside leaves. Nothing.
I check the tree line again. Still clear. Until a voice calls out behind us, making me freeze.
"Morning!"
A park ranger rounds the bend, hands on his belt, eyes alert but casual. Uniform crisp, hat shading his face. He's not here for us, not exactly, but we're not supposed to be here either. Not digging. Not carrying gear. And definitely not poking around with a hard case full of tools and tension.
Brooke straightens, doesn't miss a beat. She steps closer to me, slides her hand into mine like we've done this a hundred times. "Sorry if we're in the way. Just needed a minute to breathe."
She leans against my side, smooth and natural. "My husband's been trying to convince me nature isn't just a giant allergy attack."
Husband? I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. Pretty sure my brain just short-circuited.
The ranger chuckles. "No worries. You're fine where you are. Just try not to go too far off trail. We've had some minor wash erosion this week."
Brooke nods, playing her part perfectly. “We’ll be careful."
The ranger tips his hat and moves on. She waits until he disappears around the bend, then lets go of my hand like it's too warm to hold.
The air between us shifts, charged with something that has nothing to do with the file. For a second, I forget we're on borrowed time.
“Husband?” I say.
A flush creeps up her neck. “It was… it seemed like the best explanation.”
I smile, more to hide how much I liked hearing her say it .
Because if I let myself want that—want her —I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.
Brooke
My pulse trips, then hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
The trail's quiet, scrub brushing gently in the breeze, a bird calling somewhere off in the mesquite. But all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the ragged rhythm of my breath
I tilt toward him. The space between us shrinks to nothing, the world narrowing to just this moment, this almost-touch, this?—
But then Caleb blinks and steps back half an inch. "I think we should pray," he says softly, like it costs him something.
Disappointment settles like a stone in my chest. I nod, but my heart folds in on itself, and I have to look away from the gentle apology in his eyes.
He bows his head, voice low and reverent. "Lord, we need wisdom. Courage. We're walking blind, and You see what we can't. If this is the spot, help us find it. And if it's not, don't let us waste time."
I barely hear the rest.
My mind's doing something it has no business doing. Wandering down paths that feel dangerous.
I tear my gaze away from him. Anything to stop the desire to confess something I shouldn’t.
Over twenty minutes pass by, nothing but dust, scrub, and sweat when something catches my eye.
My chest tightens as I spy the corner of faded cardboard.
“Over here,” I call.
Caleb's head snaps up, following my gaze.
Half-hidden under a nest of brittle branches and packed dirt, like something deliberately concealed. A torn edge of cardboard, sun-faded and warped, but unmistakable.
We crouch together, our knees almost touching in the dirt. My fingers dig carefully, brushing aside dry leaves and twigs.
God answered our prayers. Caleb's prayer.
It's heavier than I remember. Heavier than any collection of paper and cardboard should be.
Beside me, Caleb is quiet. Focused. But I feel the tension in him like a current under the surface—tight, coiled, ready to spring.
“Keep it hidden. We don’t know who might be watching,” he says.
I nod and tuck it under my arm. Just like I did the night Eliza gave it to me.
We're almost to the parking lot when Caleb slows. "Hold up.”
He signals Reese, who's waiting just ahead with a watchful calm he wears like second skin. Nothing about him twitches. He just shifts his weight, scans the horizon, like someone trained to expect trouble behind every tree.
My heart rate jumps. “What’s wrong?”
"I should have done this earlier.”
“Done what?”
He gestures to Reese.
“We need to run a sweep," Caleb says, his voice low and clipped. "Gear, phone. Anything that could be leaking location."
The words hit me like cold water. Of course. Of course they'd think of that.
Reese doesn't hesitate. He pulls out a slim scanner from the case, something that looks military-grade, expensive. Powers it on with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. The low whine cuts through the dry air, electronic and alien in this place of dirt and sage.
He passes it over my bag first, moving methodically. My phone, my jacket, the sleeves of my shirt. Each pass makes my stomach tighten a little more. Then the binder itself, running the scanner along every edge, every corner.
Silence. Just the wind and that electronic whine.
He adjusts the frequency. The tone shifts higher, more urgent. Scans again, slower this time, more thorough.
Still nothing.
"No signal," he says finally, but his voice carries a note I don't like. Uncertainty. Worry. "No tracker. Not on her. Not on anything she's carrying."
Caleb looks at me, then at the empty space around us. The trail stretching behind us. Everywhere we've already been, every step we've taken that might have been watched.
"This guy's always one step ahead," he says.
The air around us shifts. Like the moment before a storm breaks. I blink. "What are you saying?"
"I’m saying they know how you think. Where you go when you're scared. Who you turn to when the walls close in. The places that feel safe to you." His voice is calm. Too calm. "Your patterns. Your instincts. Your weaknesses."
Each word lands like a physical blow.
"They're not tracking you, Brooke."
He holds my gaze, and I see something in his eyes that terrifies me. A certainty that cuts deeper than any fear I've felt so far.
"They're anticipating you."