14. The Truce Container
fourteen
The Truce Container
Nora
"Iwonder just how much he knows."
I whisper the words to the empty kitchen, the sound swallowed instantly by the heavy, damp air.
The storm broke overnight, leaving Moonrise suffocating under a thick blanket of humidity. The morning light filtering through the cottage windows is bruised and gray. I stand perfectly still on the faded linoleum, staring at the kitchen counter.
Sitting directly in the center of the butcher block is the glass dish he had brought the tamale in. I washed it three times this morning until it's spotless. Beside it lies the butcher paper it came wrapped in, stained with translucent grease spots from Elena's tamales.
I wrap my arms around my waist, pulling my oversized sweater tight against my ribs.
My internal state is a wreck. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jax standing in my studio doorway. I see the exact angle of his broad shoulders. I see the towel in his massive hands. And I feel the suffocating, terrifying weight of the unspoken truth hanging in the air between us.
He saw the box. He bumped it. I know he did. The lid was slightly askew when I walked back in.
Which means he saw what was inside, so why didn't he say anything?
A violent shudder rips through my chest as I start to pace. I take four steps to the old refrigerator, pivot, then four steps to the sink.
I am hyper-aware of how much of my armor he peeled back last night. Yet, he didn't use it. He didn't look at me with pity. He didn't ask a single invasive question. Instead, he looked me in the eye and delivered a sudden, quiet apology.
He made an absolute, unyielding vow to protect this land from Stanley. He stood in my house, soaked in rainwater, and completely upended everything I thought I knew about him.
He is getting closer. He is seeing the cracks in my foundation, and I have absolutely no idea how to handle a man like Jackson Rowe. I am fighting a war on two fronts now; Stanley's corporate machine, and Jax's quiet, devastating observation.
If I am going to manage this, if I am going to convince Jax that we are on the same side, I need to know who he really is. I need the blueprint of his mind.
I stop at the sink, gripping the edge of the cold porcelain. I look out the window.
Through the canopy of dripping oak trees, I can see the edge of the Rowe Salvage yard. A vehicle is kicking up wet gravel near the main gate. It's a dark, heavy-duty truck that I recognize as Rafe's.
I watch the truck pull out onto the two-lane road, heading away from the yard, and my pulse kicks up a notch.
Rafe is the only person I have ever seen Jax willingly keep close. If anyone holds the blueprints to Jackson Rowe, it's him. But Rafe is hard and fiercely loyal. He won't just hand over Jax's secrets over a cup of coffee.
I look back at the empty glass dish. I look out the window at the disappearing taillights, and a plan begins to form. It's reckless, impulsive, and exactly the kind of thing I would never do usually.
I grab the glass dish without giving myself a second to overthink things. I snatch my car keys from the bowl by the door, shove my feet into my boots, and hurry out of the house.
The damp air hits my face as I sprint to my Volvo. I throw the car into gear, my tires spinning slightly on the wet driveway before catching traction.
I pull out onto the road, keeping a safe distance behind Rafe's truck with my heart hammering against my sternum. I grip the steering wheel at ten and two, hard enough that my knuckles turn white.
I need a script; I need to think about what to say to Rafe when I stand in front of him.
"Hey, Rafe," I say aloud to the empty car, trying to sound breezy. "Funny running into you here. I just wanted to return this dish."
I groan, shaking my head. "No. Idiotic. Anyone can see through that."
I clear my throat, dropping my voice an octave. "Rafe. I need to talk to you about Jax."
I wince. "Too aggressive. He'll shut down immediately."
I tap my thumbs against the leather wheel, watching the red taillights of his truck navigate the winding coastal road.
"Rafe, thank Elena for the food. By the way, why is your friend a completely contradictory giant who hates money?"
"God, Nora, pull it together," I mutter to myself.
By the time Rafe's truck slows down and turns into a wide, heavily paved driveway, I still don't have a solid opening line. I tap my brakes, pulling in a few moments after him.
I look up through the windshield to Dalton's Security.
The building matches the man who runs it.
It is a stark, imposing structure constructed of cinderblock and reinforced steel.
High wire fencing flanks the perimeter, topped with angled security cameras that track every movement in the lot.
The windows are narrow and tinted black.
It doesn't look like a local business; it looks like a fortified bunker.
I park my Volvo two spots away from Rafe's truck. He is just stepping out of the cab, a thick clipboard in his hand. He is wearing dark tactical pants and a black T-shirt, his broad shoulders tense as he locks his door.
I grab the dish, push my door open, and step out onto the wet asphalt. I force a look of mild surprise onto my face, projecting the illusion of pure coincidence.
"Rafe!" I call out.
He stops. His face shows nothing, but his entire body instantly shifts into a defensive, grounded stance. He turns slowly, his dark, calculating eyes locking onto me.
"Nora," he says.
He doesn't step toward me nor offer a polite smile. He stands exactly where he is, creating a physical barricade between me and the heavy steel door of his office.
I walk forward, lifting the glass dish slightly as a peace offering.
"I was hoping to catch someone," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I wanted to return this. To say thank you to Elena for the tamales. They were incredible."
Rafe looks at the dish. He doesn't reach for it.
"You can leave it on the hood," he says.
The cold dismissal stings, but I don't let it show. I lower my arm slowly. "I can take it inside for you. I wouldn't want it to break."
"My hood is fine," he replies. His jaw flexes. "You're a long way from your property."
He probably thinks I'm playing a game; he's seeing the polished, calculating architect who knocked on Jax's door waving a checkbook. He assumes I tracked him down to sweet-talk him, to find a backdoor into Jax's property deed for Whitfield Development.
I feel a sudden, sharp snap inside my chest, and the polite facade shatters. I am too tired, too raw, and too desperate to play the corporate diplomat today.
I drop the mask entirely. I square my shoulders, matching his blunt, heavy energy.
"I didn't come here by accident, Rafe," I say, my voice losing all its softness. "I followed you."
His blue eyes narrow. "Is that right?"
"Yes." I step closer, invading his space just enough to show I'm not intimidated. "I don't give a damn about Whitfield Development. I don't care about the corporate payouts. I don't care about the resort."
Rafe crosses his thick arms over his chest. "Then what do you care about?"
"Jax," I say flatly. "I want to know why a man who runs a salvage yard would rather go to war with a billionaire's empire than sign a piece of paper."
Rafe lets out a harsh, humorless breath. He leans slightly toward me, his presence looming.
"Why the hell should I entertain you?" Rafe asks, his voice sounding low and rough. "Why should I answer a single question you have?"
"I am not the enemy."
"Prove it," he snaps back. "You city people are all the same. You think everything has a price tag. You think if you just find the right leverage, you can buy him out. Jax isn't for sale."
"I know he isn't!" I fire back, the volume of my voice cracking in the quiet parking lot.
Rafe blinks, slightly taken aback by my volume.
I pull myself perfectly straight.
"I know he isn't for sale," I say in a trembling voice. "Because I looked him in the eye yesterday. I offered him everything I had. And he looked at me like I was asking him to pave over a grave."
Rafe goes completely still.
"It feels like I am fighting a machine, Rafe," I whisper, the desperation leaking through. "A massive, unfeeling machine that wants to take the only quiet piece of earth I have left. I am drowning. Jax promised to help me."
"But I cannot let him stand in the crossfire of a war he doesn't belong in unless I know why he's standing there. I know what it looks like when a man is protecting a sanctuary. I need to know whose grave it is."
Rafe stares at me. He searches my face, looking for the lie, but after a while he nods once, and I know he finds nothing that says I'm lying.
I watch as the defensive tension bleeds out of his shoulders. His crossed arms drop slowly to his sides. He looks at the glass dish in my hand, then back up to my eyes.
"Come inside," Rafe says.
He turns and unlocks the heavy steel door, and I follow him into Dalton's Security.
The interior smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and cold air conditioning. It looks like a functional, tactical hub with screens flickering on the walls, displaying various camera feeds from around Moonrise.
Rafe leads me past the main bullpen and into a small, isolated back office.
I have walked into a hundred buildings in my career. The outer shell tells you what someone wants the world to think. The room they actually live in tells you what they're protecting.
While the outer building is sterile, this tiny room is entirely human. A worn leather sofa sits against one wall. Stacks of mechanics' manuals are piled on a dented metal desk. Faded photographs of a woman that I guess is his wife, Elena, and a little girl are tacked to a corkboard.
Rafe Dalton's office tells me he is protecting everything that photograph contains.
Rafe walks behind the desk and sits heavily in his chair. He points to a folding chair opposite him.
I sit down, placing the glass dish carefully on the edge of his desk.