Chapter 20
TWENTY
Brooke
Still annoyed with myself for taking the bait, and with whoever thought it was funny to lock me in a room with no A/C, I'm highly aware that I'm close to snapping.
I can't shake the feeling that someone's pulling invisible strings, watching me stumble around like a puppet.
Just when I think I'm getting closer to some kind of truth, something like this happens and I'm right back where I started from. Square one. Clueless and feeling more lost than ever.
When we finally arrive at my house again, Caleb ushers me out of the car door. He's still on high alert, his eyes scanning the street as he steers me into my bedroom with a protective urgency that should make me feel safe .
“I want you to rest while I call Silas with an update," he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
"But I have work?—"
He sends me a warning look before his expression softens slightly, concern flickering in his dark eyes. "No arguments."
With a weary sigh, I relent and perch on the edge of my bed, the familiar quilt beneath me offering a small measure of comfort. "Why would the same girl tell me to look at Desert Rose and then be a no-show today?"
Caleb doesn’t answer right away. When I glance up, his jaw is tight, hands clenched at his sides.
“It’s possible she heard that Travis Bell was found dead. Car accident. But drugs and alcohol were involved.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
I stand too fast, the room tilting for a second before I steady myself. I press my hand to my stomach. “Caleb… this is. These people…”
He smiles grimly, moving closer and lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. "You see why it makes me crazy when you go off script?”
I look away, throat tightening. He’s not scolding me, not really. That almost makes it worse. “I know.” My voice is quiet. “You’re right.”
“So, do me a favor. Try to rest, even if you can't sleep. "
I know he has a point, but the energy coursing through my veins makes stillness feel impossible. Eliza and now Travis Bell?
I pull out my phone and show Caleb the photo Eliza’s “friend” sent me of them both as proof.
"Is there any way Hightower can see if this is fake? Or find out if my mystery caller is a real person?"
He nods. "Maybe. It's worth a try. I'll talk to Delilah after I call Silas. But first, you need to rest. I'll be right outside."
My thoughts are too scrambled and chaotic to rest. There are too many threads to pull at, too many loose ends that don't connect.
I'm bone-deep tired, my muscles aching from tension.
My eyes are gritty and swollen from stress and lack of sleep, and my throat feels raw like I'm on the cusp of getting sick.
I honestly don't know how much more of this psychological warfare I can take.
Maybe that's the point. Keep me off balance and so disoriented that I give up out of sheer confusion and exhaustion?
In growing frustration, I lay down on top of the covers and try to pray, seeking the peace that usually comes with surrendering my worries. But the words won't come tonight. I'm too aware of the low murmur of Caleb's voice drifting in from the next room, too conscious of every small sound.
The sound of a car engine starting outside makes me tense, and my thoughts drift to the man who's trying so hard to outwit whatever threat is circling my life like a predator in the shadows.
A man who had every right to be angry with me but chose forgiveness instead.
I owe him more than gratitude. I need to show him I’ll listen now. That I won’t run ahead again. Whatever it takes to earn back his trust.
Caleb
I crank open a can of soup and push some bread in the toaster, listening to the soft creak of floorboards from Brooke's bedroom down the hall.
Any luck, she’s trying to rest. The woman's been running on adrenaline and stubborn determination for days now, and it shows in the tight lines around her eyes, the way she holds her shoulders like she's bracing for the next hit.
I lean against the counter and dial Silas's direct line. The familiar number is burned into my memory from years of check-ins, debriefs, and the occasional middle-of-the-night emergency call. This feels like it's heading toward the latter category.
He's going to have questions I can't answer right now. Questions about why a simple protection detail has turned into whatever this is becoming. Questions about whether I'm still thinking with my head instead of my heart.
My mission was simple. My feelings sure aren't.
Sure enough, the second he picks up and I give him the lowdown on the locked room and the phone call that started it all, he cuts straight through the fat.
"Any chance that these are two separate incidents?"
I consider that, running my free hand through my hair. With a woman like Brooke who values truth over her own safety, who would walk into a dark alley if she thought there was a story there, that's highly likely.
"Could be. She’s not the type to back down from a fight," I keep my voice low, conscious of the thin walls and the woman down the hall who doesn't need to hear how deep this rabbit hole might go.
He's silent for a long moment, and I can picture him in his office, probably staring at some tactical display or personnel file, calculating risks and resources. "This is getting more involved than a simple babysitting job."
The words hit exactly where I knew they would. My chest tightens, and I feel that familiar tension between duty and something else I'm not ready to name. "You want me to stand down?"
He blows out a breath, and I can hear the weight of command in it. Silas might be a friend, one of my closest, but he’s still my boss. "That depends. Are you losing focus?"
I glance at the doorway leading to the hall. I've survived IEDs and insurgents, but one stubborn reporter might be what finally does me in.
"Just doing what you sent me here for. What you authorized."
"We nearly lost a contractor." His voice is flat, professional, but I can hear the underlying grief. In our line of work, losing people isn't just about numbers on a spreadsheet.
Guilt grips my gut like a fist. "I know." The words come out rougher than I intended.
"If you've lost sight of the objective?—"
"I haven't."
"We're going to have to scramble. I'm pulling Reese. I need him at Jericho. Can you make it work?"
I feel the loss like a punch to the gut. "Do I still have Samantha?"
"She's officially off the clock, but she's volunteered to stay on."
"Good. I need her to check at the campus again. There's something about that friend of Eliza's that doesn't sit right."
"Give her the brief." He pauses, and I can hear him shuffling papers, probably already moving on to the next crisis. "And Caleb?"
"Yeah, boss? "
"Watch your back. Gym isn't the same without your ugly mug grunting under the squat rack."
Despite everything, I almost smile. Silas's way of saying he cares without getting sentimental about it. "Copy that."
The line goes dead, and I'm left standing in Brooke's kitchen, surrounded by the domestic normalcy of dish towels and coffee mugs, feeling like I'm balanced on the edge of a knife.
The mission parameters haven’t changed. But since we kissed, something fundamental has, and I’m not sure I can pretend otherwise.
Brooke
The house is dim, lit only by the warm spill of the kitchen light down the hall. Outside, cicadas hum against the desert dark, their rhythm broken now and then by the distant whine of a passing car or the rustle of wind through dry mesquite.
I pad across the cool tile, the worn floor creaking under my weight. He’s in the kitchen, back to me, buttering toast like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like cooking for me is just another part of protecting me.
The toaster hums low. The knife scrapes softly over bread. His movements are methodical—steady, practiced. As if his body won’t let him rest, so he’s giving it something to do.
He glances over his shoulder, head cocking just slightly. The shadows catch on his jaw.
“Did you even try to sleep?”
I shake my head. Biting back words I wish I didn't need to say to explain myself. "I can't. I've always been like this."
He looks me over, a wry smile on his face. "Obsessive?"
I wish I could deny it. But somehow he already knows. He's seen enough. "It's getting worse... since Eliza... it's like my discernment is broken."
Or maybe it’s like Paul says. I keep doing the things I don’t want to do.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding, maybe pain—before he drops the toast and moves closer. "That's because you've trained yourself to live a life God never asked you to. You're ignoring all the red flags in front of you."
I try to speak, but the words are wedged in my chest, trapped behind the grief and guilt I've been carrying like stones.
He gently takes my hands. "God gave you a gift and talent to write. But He never asked you to sacrifice your health, your peace in pursuit of the truth."
His hands slide up my arms, sending shivers running up my skin. "You keep burning the candle at both ends, Brooke..." His voice softens. "Eventually, there's nothing left to burn."
I chew my lip, trying not to let him see how much his words are sinking into a tender part of me. “So what am I supposed to do? Just... stop caring? Stop trying to make things right?”
His jaw relaxes, the lines around his eyes easing. “Remember Elijah?” His thumb traces across my knuckles. “The part where he runs off into the desert after Jezebel vows to kill him? He sits under a tree and asks God to take his life.”
I blink, confused. “This doesn’t really apply here, does it?”
“Sure it does. God doesn’t rebuke him. He sees that Elijah’s exhausted. Done. He gives him food. Then tells him to rest.”
Caleb pulls out his phone, scrolls, and holds it out so I can read. His other hand stays wrapped around mine.
He ate and drank and then lay down again... The angel of the Lord came back a second time and said, ‘Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.’