Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Caleb
I push through the glass doors of the Tucson Times lobby and spot her immediately, standing near the elevator bank, bag slung over one shoulder, phone in hand.
She's not pacing, not outwardly panicked, but the tension's there.
In her posture. In the way her fingers keep tightening on the strap of her bag.
The knot in my chest loosens for the first time in an hour.
Reese is stationed near the entrance, his Air Marshal training helping him to blend in.
"She didn't move," he says quietly. "Didn't even go for coffee. But the security guard was watching me pretty close."
I glance over to the security desk. Sure enough, we’re getting the stink eye in the busy lobby .
"Appreciate it," I reply, then cross to Brooke.
She looks up when I approach, relief flickering across her face, but only for a second. She's still wound tight. Her eyes shift past me to Reese, then back.
“I’m assuming Reese’s arrival is why you kept me waiting?”
"Precautionary," I say, keeping my voice level. "Had a feeling you might need backup. You know, in case Lawrence decided to throw staplers."
Her eyes narrow slightly. She's not buying the casual explanation, but she doesn't push. Not yet.
"I got a call," she says, stepping in closer so her voice doesn't carry. "Eliza worked at an abortion clinic. Desert Rose."
I let out a slow breath. "You trust this caller?"
"Trust? I don't know. I have no reason not to believe her."
My jaw tightens. I glance past her, toward the elevators. "Come on. We'll talk in the car."
She hesitates, just for a second. Her gaze flicks to Reese again, questions still brewing. Then she nods and falls in step beside me.
I don't tell her about the tail.
No point rattling her with what didn't happen. Plus, explaining how I almost turned some poor guy in a golf shirt into roadkill probably isn't the confidence booster she needs right now.
She's still standing .
That's the only thing that matters.
Brooke
Back inside St Mary’s again, I stand near the watercooler, arms crossed. My heel taps against the tile in a restless rhythm I can't seem to stop.
A nurse brushes past us, rubber soles silent on tile, clipboard clutched tight. She glances at us—two women having an intense conversation by the watercooler—but keeps walking.
My voice cuts through the ambient noise. "It’s the perfect opportunity to snoop."
Samantha doesn't even blink. Her tone is even, cool. "Fearless is one thing, Brooke. Brainless is another."
I scoff, throwing my hands up. The motion sends my elbow into the watercooler's side panel, a dull thunk that echoes off the walls. "Wow. Okay. You literally walked into a house filled with terrorists!"
A doctor in scrubs passes between us, stethoscope draped around his neck, muttering into a phone about discharge orders. We both pause, voices lowering instinctively.
"Caleb will do anything you ask him to," Samantha says once he's gone.
My back straightens. "What's that supposed to mean? "
"You know exactly what it means."
"You think I'm manipulating him?"
She lifts a shoulder, but her jaw ticks. "I think you're so caught up in this story that you've lost sight of the risk to him."
My stomach knots. "This from the woman who strapped a bomb to my brother!"
An elderly man shuffles past with a walker, oxygen tank trailing behind him.
The steady hiss of the tank mingles with our rising voices.
Samantha's color drains from her face, then floods back fast. Her voice is tight now.
"And I lived to regret every choice I made.
If you go in there, Caleb will follow you.
Just like Mick followed me. Except he had a plan, and a team. "
I take a step forward, arms wrapping tighter around myself. The watercooler gurgles behind me. "Caleb has Reese."
"That doesn't make it any less risky for him. Mateo proved that."
A page crackles over the intercom—"Dr. Martinez to room 618, Dr. Martinez to room 618"—and I use the distraction to look away from her piercing stare.
"You think I should quit, don't you?"
She tilts her head slightly. "I think you have a family who would be devastated if something happened to you because you were trying to prove a point."
The words hit like a slap. My throat goes tight. I glance away, at the bulletin board covered in safety notices, at the scuff marks on the baseboards, anywhere but her face.
"I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m trying to find the truth," I mutter.
A janitor wheels a mop bucket past us, the wheels squeaking in an off-rhythm that sets my teeth on edge. The smell of pine cleaner follows in his wake.
Samantha’s mouth tightens at the corners.
She doesn't argue. Doesn't retreat.
I almost wish she would.
Because it would make it easier to ignore the part of me that knows she's right.
Caleb
The moment Brooke and Sam step back into Mateo's room, Brooke starts pacing like she's trying to outwalk a lit fuse. Back and forth in the narrow space between the bed and the window, each turn sharper than the last. Her fists keep curling and releasing like she's trying to bleed off pressure.
One phone call, she said. I just need to make one phone call.
Should have guessed it wasn't another check-in with her mom.
To confirm it, Samantha doesn't say a word, but her stance says everything—arms crossed, jaw tight, weight forward.
They both turn to me when they realize I'm watching. Measuring.
"What just happened?" I ask, even though I already know. This isn't a disagreement. It's a move. And knowing Brooke, probably not the safe kind.
Brooke stops mid-step and turns to face me.
Spine straight. Shoulders squared. There's color in her cheeks, but her voice is calm when she speaks.
Controlled. "Travis Bell is at a medical conference in Dallas.
He won't be back for a week. I'm going in under another name. I've already made an appointment."
It's not a suggestion. Not a request. She's already made the call. We're either with her or in her way.
Everything in me wants to shut this down.
To tell her absolutely not. To remind her that people are trying to kill her, that she's already been shot at, that walking into Bell's office is like painting a target on her back.
But I can see it in her eyes. The same look she had before I kissed her.
Determined. Reckless. Completely immovable.
And I know that if I don't help her do this safely, she'll find a way to do it without me.
Samantha doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak.
But the warning's still there, written in her expression, coiled in the set of her jaw.
Tense. Ready. Her silence is so loud it's practically deafening.
She wants to go in. This is what she's here for.
But Brooke is taking the lead, and we're all supposed to keep up.
My pulse kicks up. A cold knot forms in my gut. "Samantha can?—"
Her expression hardens. "I know she can . That's not the point. You can't keep me locked up in this hospital room forever."
No. I can't. And I'd rather not have to worry about her going rogue, slipping out, ditching backup, chasing leads alone. Which means I've got one shot to keep this contained.
I step forward, plant myself squarely in her line of sight.
"Ten-minute check-ins. No exceptions. Reese stays in the lot as backup. You ask questions. That's it. You don't freelance. You don't chase."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't back down. Just lifts her chin. "What if I get an opportunity to dig deeper?"
The silence stretches. Even Mateo's monitors seem to pause.
I hold her gaze. Let her know exactly how non-negotiable this is. "Then you report it and wait for orders. We do this my way, or you don't go in at all."
Brooke's jaw works. She wants to argue, I can tell. But she doesn't.
She nods. Slow. Deliberate. "Understood. "
And just like that, we're committed to another plan with too many variables.
And it only works if Brooke doesn't improvise.