CHAPTER 21
Brynn
Geneva Outskirts, Switzerland
Day One Off Grid
I didn’t sleep.
I occupied a bed for several hours and occasionally closed my eyes in a way that might’ve fooled someone watching, but I didn’t sleep.
I rolled onto my side and glared at the dark.
The room gave me nothing back.
Naturally, it didn’t. This was Jameson’s safe house. Even the furniture seemed trained not to disclose information.
At some point, the black outside the thin line beneath the shutter softened into gray.
Morning.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and tested my foot against the floor.
Tender, but fine.
The cuts stung when I put weight on it, but it was tolerable.
I stood and crossed to the door, opening it slowly.
The hall appeared empty.
The main room was colder than it had been the night before. The fire still hadn’t been lit. Pale light seeped through the shutter seams, thin and colorless, catching on the alarm panel’s faint green blink near the kitchen.
No Jameson. No sound.
For a second, something hollow opened inside my chest.
What if he left me here.
The thought came fast and ugly before I could stop it.
Just disappeared. Because that was what people like him did. People with safe houses and aliases and one-word answers.
My hand tightened on the doorframe.
Then I saw the mug on the counter.
One mug, clean and turned upside down beside a thermos that hadn’t been there last night.
Beside it sat a folded piece of paper.
I approached slowly, because apparently I’d learned nothing except suspicion.
The note was written in block letters.
Coffee. Stay inside. Don’t use your phone or laptop.
Below that, after a small space, another line.
Please.
I stared at the word for longer than necessary.
Please.
I picked up the paper and turned it over, expecting something more.
Nothing.
I poured coffee from the thermos into the mug. It was still hot. Strong enough to peel paint.
I took one sip and winced. “Jesus.”
I drank it anyway.
I moved toward the living room, mug in both hands, and stopped near the fireplace.
The hearth was cold, but that didn’t bother me.
I knew how to build a fire.
Appalachia had taught me early. What caught. What smoked. What smothered itself if you got impatient.
I set the mug on the stone ledge and crouched, checking the ash first, then the grate. There was dry kindling stacked in a narrow iron basket beside the fireplace, split clean and small. Too neat to be charming. Too practical to be decoration.
My hands knew what to do before the rest of me did.
Paper first. Kindling angled over it. Space left for air. Bigger pieces waiting until the flame had something to become.
I reached for the matches, then paused.
My eyes didn’t go to the couch, the hallway, or even the fire I was building. They went to the windows.
The windows.
More specifically, the places where the shutters met the frame. The thin seams where light edged through. The angles someone outside might use if the shutters failed. The path from the hearth to the hall. The distance between me and the kitchen knives. The cleanest route to the back door.
I stared for one second too long.
Then struck the match anyway.
Sulfur bit the air. The flame trembled, then steadied.
I had been in this house less than twelve hours and was already mentally mapping my defense.
I took another sip of coffee and made a face. “Congratulations, Brynn. Trauma and terrible coffee. A balanced morning.”
The front door opened.
I didn’t move gracefully or impressively, but I moved fast.
I stepped sideways, putting the kitchen island partly between me and the entry, coffee still in hand, body angled toward the hallway.
Jameson came in and stopped just inside the door.
He looked at me.
Then at the island.
Then at my stance.
His coat was damp at the shoulders. His boots were muddy. A thin line of gravel and wet earth followed him over the threshold before he shut the door behind him. He locked it, tested the handle, then locked something else beneath the knob I hadn’t even noticed existed.
Only then did he look at me again.
“Morning,” he said.
I stared at him. “Morning?”
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s what you’re going with?”
His gaze dropped briefly to the mug in my hand. “You found the coffee.”
“I found your hostage note.”
His brow moved. “Hostage note?”
“Don’t leave. Don’t communicate with the outside world.”
“That was an instruction,” he said.
“You added please.”
“I was being polite,” he said.
I blinked at him.
He moved past me toward the kitchen like this conversation made perfect sense. As he passed, the smell of rain and cold air followed him in. He reached for another mug, poured coffee, and drank it black without flinching.
Psychopath.
Probably trained, emotionally repressed psychopath with unfair facial symmetry.
“You went out,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you ever give more than one-word answers?”
“Yes,” he said.
I stared.
He took another sip of coffee.
The silence stretched.
Then, despite myself, I let out a short laugh.
It came out thinner than I wanted it to.
I set the mug down on the counter because I didn’t trust myself with hot liquid right now. “Where did you go?”
Jameson leaned back against the counter. “Perimeter.”
“Naturally.” I leaned against the island. “And?”
He set his mug down. “No immediate signs of surveillance. No fresh tracks past ours. No signal activity close enough to register on a basic sweep. Road below is quiet.”
I closed my eyes.
The words should’ve helped.
They didn’t.
“Are we safe here?”
He studied the room, then looked back to me. “For now.”
For now.
Because safe wasn’t a thing anymore. It was a window. A borrowed minute. A door with too many locks and a man who checked the perimeter before sunrise.
“You said we’d talk in the morning,” I said.
His jaw shifted once. “I did.”
“It’s morning.”
“It is,” he said.
“So?”
He set his mug down. “Get dressed.”
I looked down at myself. I was still in the clothes I’d slept in. Hoodie. Leggings. Bare feet. Hair probably doing something unfortunate.
Then I looked back at him. “That better not be a deflection.”
“It’s not,” he said.
“Because I swear to God, if you tell me to get dressed and then give me another twelve hours of mysterious silence, I’m going to throw more objects at you.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the counter. “You’re running out of effective ones.”
“I’ll improvise.”
“I believe you,” he said.
His mouth tugged at one corner, barely there and gone too fast to count as a smile.
I hated that I wanted to count it anyway.
Then his expression settled again.
“When you come back out, bring your phone and laptop.”
My spine straightened. “Why?”
“Because we need to make sure they’re clean before I go into town later and pick up more burners,” he said.
“Didn’t you check yesterday?”
“Not thorough enough. I want to check for trackers, malware, remote access, and location pings. Make sure there are no embedded programs hiding behind apps you thought were harmless,” he said.
I stared at him.
Something small and cold slid through my stomach.
The fire popped behind me.
“That was a lot more than one word,” I said.
His eyes held mine. “I’m capable of growth.”
“Terrifying.”
His gaze moved over my face, not quite soft, but not cold either. “Get dressed, Brynn.”
A shiver moved through me that had nothing to do with the cold.
That was inconvenient.
Dangerous, actually.
I pushed off the island. “You’re still explaining everything when I get back.”
“Yes,” he said.
I stopped halfway to the hall and looked over my shoulder.
He was standing near the kitchen with both hands braced against the counter, head slightly bowed, like he was already arranging pieces on a board I couldn’t see.
“Everything,” I said.
His eyes lifted to mine. “Everything.”