Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Caleb
I should be cataloging threats.
Instead, I'm remembering the way Brooke's breath hitched when I pulled her close.
Not tactically. Not objectively. Just thinking about it like some lovesick teenager. The heat of it. The way she leaned in like she didn't care what came next. Like for one second, the world outside that kiss didn't exist.
And I made it happen.
I didn't think. Didn't assess. Didn't even pause to consider if kissing a woman I'm supposed to be protecting was the dumbest thing I'd done all week.
I'm not green. Not some rookie running on adrenaline and bad judgment. I should've been better. Been sharper. Should've kept my head in the game .
My jaw tightens.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, and try to breathe through the pressure building in my chest.
Mick trusted me to take care of her. Silas tasked me with what we both assumed was a babysitting job.
Now here I am, watching Brooke like she's the center of gravity, thinking about her voice and her hands and that kiss, losing my edge all over again.
The orderly who checked Mateo's vitals earlier is back, lingering in the doorway longer than necessary. This time he's looking at the machines, but his eyes keep drifting to Brooke, then to me. Normal curiosity or something else?
That should have my full attention. Should have me evaluating threat levels, reading body language.
Instead, I'm noting the way Brooke's hair catches the light streaming through the window. The way she absently tucks a strand behind her ear when she's concentrating.
Focus.
I force myself to think like a professional.
We've got a dead graduate student, a conspiracy that reaches into places it shouldn't, and people who are willing to kill to keep their secrets buried.
Mateo's laid up because someone decided we were getting too close to something they wanted to stay hidden.
I pull out my cell, ready to contact Delilah. Something I should have done the second Brooke gave me a name and a direction .
Rather than risk waking Mateo and drawing Brooke into the conversation, I tap out an email, keeping one eye on the door and one eye on my message.
In under two hundred characters, I rattle off what Brooke has told me, where we’re at, and ask Delilah to use every skill she has to dig into any possible scandals at Sonora Investments.
Lawsuits. Allegations. Harassment. I need to know what kind of company we're dealing with.
The kind that discredits threats, or the kind that eliminates them.
Brooke
Shifting in the uncomfortable chair, I tune out the sounds of muffled voices and the distant squeak of rubber soles on tile.
I can't get the words out of my mind.
Anticipating me.
This isn't some faceless threat—this is someone I've spoken to. Someone who slashed my tires, waited, then twice drove by and tried to murder me in the street.
My head feels scrambled, too many conflicting thoughts and emotions crashing together.
I flip a few pages. The weight of what I’m missing settles heavy in my stomach. I smooth my hair back, fingers catching on a tangle that won't come loose.
"This doesn't make sense," I say. "Eliza said she had inside information on Sonora Investments. I thought she had evidence of corporate fraud. There’s nothing here. It’s like she stuffed the file with her study notes and used Sonora’s letterhead."
Caleb leans in close and looks over the page I’m studying. "Maybe she used Sonora to get your attention?"
Samantha seems to have another theory. "Maybe she was testing you? I know I would have. Waited to see if you were trustworthy.”
I chew on my lip so hard I taste blood. "I should go to the university."
Both of them look at me.
"I know the campus. If she told someone—an adviser, a classmate?—"
Samantha tosses her head. "You can't. You're too visible. If you walk in there now, they'll clam up."
"I can be discreet."
"No," she says, "You can't. But I can."
When I start to protest, she holds her hand up, stopping me.
"I'll pose as a prospective grad student. I'll ask around about Eliza's work, see if anyone remembers her talking about Sonora or her job there."
As if it’s already decided, Caleb shoots her a nod. " That’ll work. I’m waiting on an email from Delilah. Brooke can keep working through the file.”
Of all the nerve! This is my story! Eliza was my responsibility. “People knowing me could?—”
Caleb levels me with a look. “If you go, I have to go. You really think anyone is going to talk with me around?”
Annoyance flickers through me, even though he has a point.
“You wanted a job… your job is to flag anything that jumps—names, dates, connections. I'll get it to Hightower and see if it crosses with anything they find," he says.
I wish I had a solid argument ready, but my protest vanishes when Caleb turns to Samantha, voice steady. "Reese tails you. No contact unless something's wrong."
"Understood." She grabs her coat. "I'll use my real name. Easier to keep the story straight."
Before she heads out, she looks at me. “Don’t worry. This is what I’m good at.”
I don’t doubt it. "Be careful," I say.
"You too."
She disappears into the hallway. The soft voices of nurses drift in before the door swings shut behind her.
Caleb stays facing the door, jaw tight, hands braced on the back of the chair. “She’s got this. She’s a natural. ”
I don’t move. Heart thudding too loud, too fast.
Because it doesn’t matter if Samantha is a natural, if this goes wrong?—
I’m the one Mick will hold responsible.
Caleb
Mateo wakes long enough to prove he's too stubborn to bleed out without permission, mumbling something about Jell-O before his eyes drift shut again.
"I'll go find some," I tell Brooke, pushing back from my chair.
The cafeteria's two floors down, and by the time I'm heading back with a cup of green Jell-O and a plastic spoon, my phone buzzes.
Delilah's reply. So far, Sonora Investments looks clean.
No pending lawsuits, no allegations, nothing that screams corporate conspiracy.
Which somehow makes me more suspicious, not less.
A company that big should have plenty of skeletons in its closet.
I pocket the phone and slip back into the room. Mateo's eyes are open when I set the Jell-O on his bedside table.
"Green?" he croaks, eyeing the cup like I've personally offended him.
"Didn't know you had a color preference."
He manages two spoonfuls before he falls asleep. I take the spoon out of his hand and set it aside, checking his monitors one more time. Still steady.
Brooke didn’t seem to notice I left. She's got files spread across the window ledge like she's trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Every time she leans forward to make a note, I get a subtle hint of her perfume and lose track of what I'm supposed to be thinking about.
This is exactly the kind of thing that gets people killed in my line of work.
Focus on the wrong thing at the wrong time, and someone ends up here.
Like Mateo.
My phone buzzes just as Brooke leans in to say something. “Hold up. Text from Sam.”
I scan the message while she waits, eyes on me, tension winding tighter by the second.
Found a friend of Eliza's. Mia Park. Senior. Lab partner. She said Eliza had a thing with an older guy. Intense. Possibly married. Eliza was trying to end it. Also talked to Gavin Patel from her study group. Said she hated drugs, debated it in class with him once.
I read it twice. Glance at Brooke. She's circling a name with fingers that don't quite stay steady. The stress is getting to her, but she's fighting hard.
I slide the phone toward her. "Mia Park says Eliza was seeing someone. Older. Intense. She wanted out. And her study group friend says she hated drugs."
Brooke lifts her eyes. Green like her brother's, focused, with that little crease between her brows that shows up when she's processing something.
She nods once. Keeps highlighting. The sound of the marker on paper mixes with the mechanical wheeze of the ventilator in the next room. Hospital acoustics, everything echoes, nothing stays private.
Buzz. Another message. Sam is working fast.
I relay the message to Brooke. “Dr. Callahan confirmed Eliza asked how far academic protections go if you're holding criminal evidence. He brushed her off, regrets it now. Same story from everyone she’s talked to. No one believes she was suicidal.”
Brooke closes the binder and leans back in her chair. The movement draws my attention to the way her shirt pulls across her chest, and I have to consciously redirect my focus to Mateo's monitor. Still beeping. Still alive. Out of his head on the good drugs.
"They all knew something was wrong," she says.
"Yeah."
"They just didn't think she was worth stopping for."
I don't answer. There's nothing to say. People see what they want to see, help who they want to help. The rest get filed under "someone else's problem" until it's too late to matter .
"She was trying to protect something," I say. "Maybe someone."
Brooke doesn't speak. Her hand flattens over the binder like she's trying to steady it or herself. "I think I have something."
"Show me," I say.
She shifts beside me and slides the binder onto my lap. "I think she buried something important under the Sonora and school stuff. Take a look."
I flip through slowly.
A brochure for Sonora's green energy initiative sits on top.
Sleek design, full of buzzwords. Beneath that, a stack of mileage reimbursement forms and lunch receipts.
Her class schedule. A copy of her resume with Sustainability Intern, Sonora Investments highlighted.
Notes from a seminar on ethical engineering practices, most of them underlined in neat handwriting.
A paper draft titled Public-Private Partnerships in Campus Infrastructure.
Standard. Polished. Harmless.
Then halfway through, the language shifts.
No mention of Sonora. No logos. Just a clean, clinical line buried in the middle of a data table, easy to miss if you weren't looking.
Post-procedural assessment: no documentation of fetal viability.
I blink. Read it again.
The words don't belong. Not with environmental research. Not with anything a college student should be near, much less hiding. But there it is. Sitting on the page like a landmine disguised as a line item.
I tap the sentence. "This mean what I think it means?"
Brooke's voice is flat. "We need to search her apartment."
I nod, already reaching for my phone. "Yeah. Before someone else gets there first."