Chapter 20 #2
“Food and a nap,” I echo.
Caleb gestures toward the toast. “I’m no angel, but it’ll do the trick.”
When I hesitate, he doesn’t let up. “Brooke, this isn’t just dedication anymore. It’s recklessness. With your health. Your judgment. Your safety. That’s not serving God, it’s serving your own need to control things you can’t.”
The words land hard. My eyes fill with the tears I’ve been holding back. “Wow. Tell me the truth, why don’t you.”
He gently cups my chin. “For we can do nothing against the truth, but only for the truth.”
I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as his fingers brush my cheek. “Do you always use Scripture like it’s a weapon?”
He steps closer, gaze steady and searching. “This is warfare, sweetheart. It’s the most effective weapon I’ve got.”
My breath catches in my chest. Heat rising to my skin as he tangles his fingers in my hair, sending waves of delight running down my spine.
All my senses come alive. The soup bubbling on the stove, the ticking of the clock on the wall, the thumping of my heart, and the masculine scent his skin carries.
Oh boy.
If he kisses me now…
I don’t have to wonder.
He pulls back, the shift subtle but final. His hand slips from my hair, and something cautious flickers in his eyes before he turns toward the stove.
Back to the soup.
Safer. But definitely not where I wish his attention was right now.
Caleb
My gaze locks on the gentle swirl of steam rising from the bowl of tomato soup in front of me. It curls into the air, catching the soft kitchen light, the scent rich and familiar. That’s the task at hand: eat, refuel, survive.
Not the woman sitting across from me, her silence louder than words. Not the pull I can feel even now.
I bow my head. My voice is low, steady. The only sound between us aside from the quiet hum of the fridge and the tick of the old clock on the wall.
“Lord, thank You for this food and for getting us this far. Brooke’s worn thin, and I’m running close myself.
We need Your strength. Not just to keep going, but to do it right.
Give us courage when things get dark. Clarity when the path twists.
And the discipline to stay focused, even when it’d be easier not to.
Keep her safe. Keep me sharp. And don’t let either of us forget who we’re really fighting for. Amen.”
“Amen,” Brooke murmurs, her voice softer than it’s been all day.
We eat in silence. The soup’s lukewarm, the toast a little burnt, but it’s warm and edible, two luxuries I’ve learned not to take for granted. The only sound is the clink of her spoon against ceramic and the occasional crunch of toast .
She glances at me once. Then again. I focus on my food like it’s mission-critical intel.
Underneath the table, her knee knocks into mine. My spoon hovers midair. This space isn’t big enough. The entire house isn’t big enough.
My phone buzzes, cutting through the tension like a shot.
Zack.
“You have something?” I answer, pushing toast around on my plate.
“Been speakin’ to someone over at TPD,” Zack drawls, voice low and easy. “Keepin’ it quiet, but they’ve got a suspect. Jordan Hayes.”
All my muscles tense. “Tell me.”
“EMT student. Gun license. Drives a white van. Currently sportin’ a brand new windshield.”
“What’s his connection to Brooke?”
Brooke freezes, eyes widening. I draw my gaze away and wish I’d thought to exit before answering.
“Didn’t get that far,” Zack doesn’t push. He doesn’t have to. The name came up for a reason.
“They moving on it?”
“Gettin’ a warrant now. Should be soon.”
That doesn’t leave much time. “Worth checking him out?”
“I’d reckon. But looks like you’re drawin’ a little attention yourself.”
Translation: stay put. Let the system run its course. Easy for him to say .
“Copy that,” I say. “Appreciate it.”
“Watch your six.”
He clicks off. I set the phone down and lean back, trying to pretend my appetite hasn’t just taken a nosedive.
Brooke’s staring holes through me.
“What did he say?”
I hesitate half a second too long.
“Caleb.”
“Name came up,” I admit. “Jordan Hayes. EMT. Drives a white van. He sound familiar?”
Her spoon drops, clattering into her bowl. Tomato soup splashes across the table. She doesn’t blink.
“No,” Her voice is hoarse. “We need to check him out.”
At the unspoken question on her lips, I preempt her. “Reese is gone,” I say. “I’m not leaving you unprotected again.”
She straightens. I can see the shift—shoulders squaring, fists curling. Eyes locked on mine.
That look that says she’s going to fight me if she has to.
Brooke
Outside, the desert night presses against the windows, quiet and unmoving, while inside, my heart has started hammering against my rib cage loud and reckless, like it knows I’m about to say something I can’t take back.
"I can stay at the newsroom and wait for you. The doors lock, there's night security, and no one can come in without a pass."
Caleb's silent for a long moment, processing. I can practically hear the gears turning in his tactical mind, weighing risks and variables.
"Brooke—"
"Think about it," I press on. "It's safer than here. More secure. And if something happens to Jordan before the police get to him..." I let the implication hang in the air. We both know what that means—evidence destroyed, questions unanswered, Eliza's death meaningless.
He's wavering. I can see it in the way he's looking at me, that internal battle between keeping me locked away and knowing I'm right about the newsroom's security.
His fingers drum against his thigh. "You don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”
But I do.
"I'm asking you to let me wait somewhere that makes sense.”
Every cell in my body wants to move, to do something, anything , but I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not making another call on instinct. Not this time. Not without Caleb’s say-so.
Caleb's jaw tightens once. Then again. His eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable at first, but I can see it, just beneath the surface.
The war he's fighting. Not tactical—personal.
He's not just weighing risk. He's weighing me .
What I've done. What I've learned. Whether I'll listen this time when it counts.
His fingers curl into a fist, then soften. The line between his brows deepens. And for a second, something flickers in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or the memory of what it felt like last time he couldn't protect me.
This costs him. Letting me out of his sight. Giving me even this small piece of control.
But he does it.
He nods once. Quiet. Final. Like he's handing over something precious.
And for the first time, I know he's not just guarding me, he's choosing to trust me.
"Stay put," he says finally. "No matter what."
"I won’t leave the newsroom for anyone or anything."
"Swear on it."
The words are sharp, serious. This isn't a request—it's a condition. "I swear."
For a beat, he doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just watches me, like he's trying to see past the words—to the weight behind them.
He nods once, then disappears down the short hallway into the spare bedroom. The soft thud of his footsteps fades, followed by the quiet click of a drawer opening.
When he returns, it’s in his hands—cold, black steel catching the low light.
Another gun.
He holds it out like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a tool. But everything in me tightens at the sight.
“Have you ever used one of these?”
“No.” The word slips out smaller than I mean it to. Thin. Unsteady.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods again, businesslike. Calm.
“Safety’s here.” He shows me with a flick of his thumb, his fingers moving with a quiet, practiced confidence. “Point. Squeeze—don’t pull. And only if your life depends on it.”
The grip feels strange in my hand, textured in a way that makes it hard to forget I’m holding something dangerous. My fingers don’t quite know where to rest. It’s not heavy, but it’s not comfortable either. Just…solid.
“.380 Shield EZ. Light recoil, easy slide. Won’t fight you if you have to use it.”
I swallow hard.
He’s not just giving me a weapon. He’s giving me his trust.
And I intend to honor it.
Caleb
We pull up outside the Tucson Times, its glass facade dark except for a few glowing windows on the upper floors.
It’s not ideal. But it’s better than nothing. The building’s badge-protected. Single point of entry. Security posted at the front, and her desk’s tucked deep in the middle of the floor.
If something goes wrong, she has a weapon, a phone, and a locked door. It’s not perfect. But it’s defensible. And tonight, that’s as close to safe as she’s gonna get.
The security guard sits at his desk in the foyer, half-watching the monitors, half-watching us. Older guy, mid-fifties maybe, with the posture of someone who used to care a lot more.
I clock the exits, the cameras, the badge reader on the inner door. Then I size him up.
"You solo on this post, or are you part of a team?" I ask.
He looks up, squints at me, then at Brooke. "Who's this guy?"
She laughs it off, too fast. "He's just my overly serious bodyguard. Ignore him."
She throws me a look—cool it. Message received.
I walk her past the inner doors and into the newsroom itself.
Open floor plan—good sight lines, but too many blind spots.
Cubicle walls offer cover but also concealment for threats.
Emergency exits at the back, windows facing the street.
The kind of space that's either defensible or a death trap, depending on who's coming through those doors.
Two latte soaked reporters are currently gawking at me like I’m about to detonate.
Her desk sits near the middle. Exposed, but with decent escape routes. She settles behind it, pulls the keyboard toward her like she's already booting into research mode.
"Go do your thing, I’ll check to see if I’ve run into Jordan Hayes before," she says quietly.
“Text me if you find anything,” I say.
Regret hits me before I’ve even left the newsroom.
Pushing it down, I push through the doors into the cooling desert air and pray that, just this once, Brooke Weston does the unthinkable and follows my instructions.