Chapter 11
Ty
The hospital checkout desk had seen better days. Scratched laminate, a cup of pens where half didn’t work, and a receptionist who looked ready to clock out. Charlotte stood there signing forms, her hand steady despite the white bandage at her temple and the exhaustion written across her face.
I stepped into the hallway, pulling out my phone. The call connected on the second ring.
“About time you checked in.” Ben’s voice carried that particular tone he used when he was worried but didn’t want to show it.
“Had a situation.” I kept my voice low, watching Charlotte through the glass panel in the door. “Charlotte’s car got T-boned at an intersection. Deliberate hit.”
“Your auburn-hair doc? She okay?”
Shit. I had forgotten about that. “Bruised. Shaken. But she walked away, and that’s what matters.” I shifted the phone to my other ear, because the knot tightening in my chest wasn’t something I wanted to give away in my voice.
“For fucking sure.”
“Bigger issue: somebody lifted her computer bag during the incident. Cops are calling it a crime of opportunity. Random asshole, saw a car wreck and grabbed what he could.” My eyes stayed on Charlotte as she offered a stiff smile to the receptionist. “But I don’t buy it. Not for a second.”
I filled him in—how her files had been corrupted earlier in the week, how she was under pressure to rebuild everything on a brutal timeline. It didn’t take a genius, PhD or otherwise, to connect the dots.
“Fuck, man.” He was quiet again, but this time, I could hear him thinking it through. “You really think this accident ties back to the sabotage?”
“I think calling it a coincidence is the kind of thing stupid people do right before they get blindsided. Somebody wants her to fail. Either they don’t want the countermeasure built, or they want her too scared to try.”
Through the glass, I saw her tuck the clipboard against her chest, her braid slipping over one shoulder. She looked like she was trying to hold herself together with sheer willpower. My chest tightened again, harder this time.
“I need eyes on the scene,” I said. “Traffic cams, business feeds, anything that points a lens in that direction. I want to see who hit her.”
“You know Jace could do that in his sleep,” Ben said.
“That’s exactly who I was thinking.” Jace Monroe could find a needle in a digital haystack before most people finished their coffee.
“You also know he’s gonna give you endless shit for moonlighting while you’re still on medical leave. And for not looping Ethan in.”
I rubbed a hand down my face and forced a smile when Charlotte glanced my way. “Yeah, I’ll take the ass-chewing later. Right now, I need to make sure she gets home in one piece. I’ll deal with Ethan and Logan once we’re out of the blast zone.”
“I’ll call Jace for you,” Ben offered. “Give him the accident info so he can get started while you get Charlotte settled. Give me the info you know.”
I rattled off time and address. “Tell him I want every angle. Whatever he can get. If a squirrel twitched, I want to know about it.”
“On it.” Ben’s voice sobered. “And Ty? Watch your six. If they’re bold enough to take her out in broad daylight, this isn’t over.”
I watched Charlotte pass the clipboard back, her shoulders stiff. She still hadn’t looked my way again, and I hated the thought of her trying to pretend she wasn’t scared. My grip tightened on the phone. “Yeah. Trust me, I got that memo loud and clear.”
“Keep her safe.”
The call ended as Charlotte pushed through the door, moving carefully like everything hurt. Which it probably did. Her clothes were rumpled, a small bloodstain on her neck that the hospital hadn’t quite cleaned. She looked small, vulnerable in a way that made something protective flare in my chest.
“Ready?” I asked.
She nodded, then winced at the movement. “My car…”
“Is totaled. We’ll handle the insurance calls later. Right now, let’s get you home.”
“I can take an Uber—”
“Charlotte.” I waited until she met my eyes. “Someone deliberately ran into your car. You think I’m letting you get into a vehicle with a stranger?”
Her shoulders dropped. “No. I suppose not.”
The walk to my truck was quiet, Charlotte clutching her lunch box like it held state secrets. Which, technically, it did. I kept my hand near her elbow, not quite touching but ready if she stumbled. She moved like someone who’d just realized how fragile human bodies were.
I opened the passenger door for her, watched her ease herself in with careful movements. “What’s your address?”
She rattled off a location in a neighborhood I knew—older homes, tree-lined streets, the kind of place professors and young professionals gravitated toward. Not what I’d expected. I’d pictured her in some stark, modern apartment, all clean lines and efficiency.
The drive was mostly silent except for her occasional directions. Left here, right at the stop sign, third house on the left. When we pulled up to a Craftsman-style house with a wide front porch and actual flower boxes, I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“This is yours?”
She stiffened. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s just…” I took in the warm yellow paint, the swing on the porch, the garden that someone clearly tended with care. “Not what I expected.”
She fumbled with her keys at the front door, hands shaking slightly. I took them gently, found the right one, and unlocked it. The door opened to reveal hardwood floors, walls painted in warm colors, and—
“Is that a hand-knitted blanket?”
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed as she moved past me. “My grandmother made it.”
And she’d kept it. Many people her age wouldn’t have. That told me a lot.
The living room was nothing like I’d imagined either. An overstuffed couch drowning in throw pillows, soft blankets draped artfully over the arms, photographs covering one wall in mismatched frames—landscapes, cityscapes, flowers, but no people. Not a single face among them.
Plants everywhere—hanging from some kind of knotted rope contraptions, grouped on a bookshelf, trailing from the mantel. It looked like a home. Like someone had built a nest designed for comfort.
“I’ve never had anyone from work here before,” she said quietly, setting her lunch box on the coffee table with reverent care.
“Why not?”
She shrugged, then winced at the movement. “They wouldn’t understand. Everyone expects…” She gestured vaguely. “Something else.”
I walked deeper into the room, taking in more of the details. A half-finished crossword puzzle on the end table. A candle that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.
A bookcase against the far wall caught my attention. I moved closer, running my finger along the spines, reading the authors’ names aloud.
“Stephen King, Robert A. Heinlein, Janie Crouch…” I paused, pulling one out slightly to see the cover better, then continued scanning. “Charles Dickens, Josie Jade, Andy Weir…” The list grew more eclectic the longer I looked.
“Quite the mix,” I said, glancing back at Charlotte. “Classic sci-fi and romantic suspense?”
She flushed slightly. “I like variety.”
“No judgment. Just didn’t expect—” I gestured at the romance novels tucked between the science fiction.
“Expected something else from the robot scientist?” But there was humor in her voice now, not defensiveness.
“This is nice,” I said, meaning it. “Really nice.”
She looked at me suspiciously, like she was waiting for the punch line. When it didn’t come, some of the tension leaked from her shoulders.
“You should sit,” I said. “You’re swaying.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re about five seconds from falling over.” I guided her to the couch, pressing gently on her shoulders until she sat. “How about I make you some dinner?” I didn’t even have to ask if she’d eaten. I knew she hadn’t.
“Oh, okay.”
“Stay there.” I headed for what I hoped was the kitchen, finding it through an archway.
Like the living room, it was warmer than expected.
Sunflower curtains, a collection of mismatched mugs hanging from hooks, a magnetized spice rack arranged in perfect alphabetical order.
The contrast between chaos and organization was perfectly Charlotte.
I walked farther into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
Turkey, bread, the same ingredients she used for her daily lunch sandwiches.
A few apples in the crisper. A carton of milk, eggs.
Yogurt past its expiration date, wilted lettuce, a collection of takeout containers that had seen better days.
The freezer held frozen vegetables and what looked like more sandwich bread.
The woman literally ate the same thing every day.
No. Not tonight. She needed something warm, something different.
The pantry yielded better options—a box of pasta and a jar of sauce.
“You’re going to cook?” Charlotte appeared in the doorway, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“You need to eat. Something solid and filling. This is what you have.” I filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove. “Sit before you fall.”
She perched on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, still clutching the blanket. “I can help—”
“You can sit there and talk to me.” I found olive oil, garlic. Not much, but it would add a little punch of flavor. “Tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“What was your life like growing up?”
She went still. “What do you mean?”
“Stanford at sixteen. PhD at nineteen. That’s not exactly a normal childhood.”
“Normal is a subjective construct based on societal expectations—”
“Charlotte.”
She stopped, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. “It was…lonely.”
I kept my hands busy with the cooking, giving her space to continue. Sometimes the best way to get someone talking was to not look directly at them.