Chapter 16
NORAH
Norah barely remembered the drive home.
Her body was in Georgetown, keys in hand, Marshall’s jacket dangling from her fingertips. Her mind was still outside a barn strung with lights, pressed against a man she had spent years training herself not to need.
The almost-kiss replayed in sickening, exquisite loops—the way Marshall had looked at her like she was both memory and possibility, the way his breath had teased her cheek, the way her entire body had lifted toward him without thought.
And then the way he’d stepped back.
Not because he didn’t want her. But because he did.
That was somehow worse.
She wanted to be furious at him for pulling her close, then for pulling away. For making her feel seventeen and shattered all over again. But the anger kept collapsing under the weight of longing, confusion, and an ache that had never really healed.
She hated that she still felt it. Marshall could fluster her with one hesitation, one look, one inch of space.
And she hated—most of all—that a part of her still trusted him with her life even when she didn’t trust him with her heart.
She reached her front step before she realized she’d been holding her breath.
Focus. She needed to focus. A gala was coming, Morris’s orbit was tightening, Summit’s numbers were getting uglier, and she was juggling secrets she had no business carrying.
She was already stretched thin. She felt one sharp nudge away from cracking.
Her hands wouldn’t stay steady as she pushed her key into the lock.
They hadn’t been steady since she got into the car after the wedding—since she’d stood outside under the string lights, his hand warm at her waist, his eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
Since he almost kissed her. Since she almost let him.
She’d left without saying goodbye and driven straight home.
She’d spent the whole drive replaying it, furious at herself for wanting it, furious at him for pulling away, furious at the universe for dangling something she could never have.
The gala had already loomed on her calendar.
Hale’s expectation, Morris’s interest—it all stacked inside her chest like too many boxes in too little space.
And now Marshall insisted on coming with her. As her boyfriend?
So maybe she was already unraveling when she opened the door.
But the moment she stepped inside, any pretense of pulling herself together fell apart.
Cleo wasn’t at the door.
She was always at the door, barely waiting until Norah had it open before the cat nudged at her legs. Even at two in the morning, like it was now.
“Cleo?” Norah called softly.
No jingle of her collar. No answering meow.
A cold ripple skated down Norah’s spine.
Norah stepped inside. Her heel nudged something. In the glow of the streetlight that came through the doorway behind her she could see a book at her feet. Sprawled open, spine cracked.
Her stomach dropped. She reached for the light switch.
The room snapped into view, and her breath stuttered.
Her house—her sanctuary—looked like a storm had hit it.
Pillows on the floor. Couch cushions tossed aside. Her bookshelf half-emptied, three novels splayed open on the rug like broken birds. Kitchen drawers hung open, silverware scattered, the dish towel knocked to the floor.
She moved toward the bedroom on numb, careful feet, pushing the door open with her fingertips.
Her comforter was half-pulled off. Closet doors open. Shoes dumped out of their cubbies. Her hamper overturned. Her desk chair lay on its side. Papers everywhere.
Her breath vanished. Her pulse thudded hard in her ears. She got down on her knees, looking for her notebook. The one with her notes about the NorthBridge discrepancies. With the real estate holdings printout she’d meant to destroy after Marshall’s warning.
It was gone.
And in the far corner, wedged under the bedside table, two green eyes blinked at her.
“Oh no. Cleo,” she whispered.
The cat was trembling.
Norah sank to her knees, reaching out with a shaking hand until Cleo crept forward, body low, tail tucked. She scooped her up, holding her against her chest. Cleo clung to her like she was trying not to fall, nails catching the delicate silk of her dress.
The fear hit then—fast and overwhelming. Not the abstract fear of data anomalies or shadow organizations. Not the intellectual fear she’d lived with for weeks.
Someone had been inside her home.
Someone had rummaged through her life and scared her cat enough to make her hide.
And suddenly the almost-kiss with Marshall felt like it had happened on another planet. A planet where things like romance and longing and slipping into old patterns were possible.
Not here. Not in this apartment where someone had torn her world apart and closed the door behind them like it was nothing.
Her vision blurred.
Her pulse thudded unevenly.
Her mind raced—wedding, gala, Marshall’s hands on her waist, then this—like her life was ricocheting between two extremes she couldn’t control.
She grabbed her phone with trembling fingers.
There was only one number she could call.
He picked up after half a ring.
“Norah.” His voice was low, sharp, already moving — like he’d stood up the second he saw her name. “What’s wrong?”
She tried to speak. Nothing came out.
He inhaled sharply on the line. “Norah? Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. The endearment cut straight through her.
“My house,” she managed. “It’s—Someone was here.”
A beat of silence.
“I’m on my way. Are you sure they are gone?”
“Marshall—”
“Don’t argue,” he said, firm but gentler than she’d ever heard him. “Are they gone?”
“There’s no one here,” she said, pressing her eyes closed.
“Tell me what happened.” His voice dropped into another register—quiet, lethal, focused.
“It’s wrecked. Everything is—” Her voice broke. She sucked in air. “Cleo was hiding. They tore the place apart. Marshall . . . someone went through everything.”
“Okay. I’ve got you. Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything else. Keep your back to a wall, keep eyes on the door, stay on the phone with me.”
Her breath shook. “They only took my notebook.”
Another razor-thin pause. “Okay. I’m only fifteen minutes out. Keep talking to me.”
Her knees threatened to give. She pressed her shoulder into the wall. How was he so close already?
“Why would they do this?” she whispered.
“To scare you.” His tone hardened. “And they succeeded. That’s why I’m coming. I left the wedding right after I realized you did.”
She closed her eyes, her throat tight. “You didn’t have to follow me.”
“Yes,” he said, his breath hard. “I did.”
The line dropped into silence for several beats, the empty air heavy with the weight of everything between them.
Everything almost-kissed. Everything unsaid. Everything she still felt.
She swallowed. “Just . . . keep talking. Please.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Okay.” A breath, a rustle like he was shifting the phone from one hand to the other. “You want a story?”
“Yes,” she whispered, pretty sure his voice was the only thing keeping her from a total breakdown.
“All right,” he said, settling into a tone she hadn’t heard from him in years—lighter, like he was rummaging through memories he rarely bothered to open.
“When Jackson and I were both at Fort Carson for a seven-month overlap, the base commander made the mistake of assigning us to the same PT rotation. Big oversight.”
Despite the fear still coiled under her ribs, the corner of her mouth twitched. “Why?”
“Because Jackson was a Cavalry Scout,” he said dryly. “Which means he believed—still believes—that stealth solves ninety percent of life’s problems. Including 0500 group runs.”
“Oh boy,” she said, already bracing.
“Yeah. Exactly. One morning he shows up in full camo paint—for PT. Tells me we’re conducting a morale operation. Before I can talk him out of it, he disappears into the tree line beside the running trail. Vanishes. Like a forest cryptid.”
Norah pressed a hand to her forehead, half laughing, half horrified. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Two minutes later, he drops out of a pine tree onto the trail behind the platoon sergeant, lets out this awful rebel yell, and nearly causes a thirteen-man pileup. The sergeant pulled a hamstring. Three guys face-planted. One screamed so loud someone thought we were under attack.”
“Jackson did this?” she whispered, incredulous.
“Oh, he was proud of it,” Marshall said. “He called it field-testing surprise engagement tactics. I called it how to get both of us reassigned in under ten minutes.”
“Were you?”
“Almost. The only reason we survived was because the commander thought it was funny. Said he showed initiative.” He paused. “Pretty sure that was code for I don’t get paid enough to deal with you two.”
Norah’s breath eased, her pulse steadying with the sound of his voice, the warmth tucked beneath every word. And somewhere in the middle of his story—between Jackson dropping out of trees and Marshall bracing for reprimand—ten minutes slipped quietly away.
Then she heard his footsteps in the hallway.
A gentle knock.
“It’s me.”
Her lungs collapsed with relief and Norah rushed over to yank the door open.
Marshall stepped inside without a word, and for one suspended second Norah thought—even hoped—he might reach for her.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
His body went taut, shoulders squared, gaze sweeping the apartment with the sharp, precise focus she remembered from years ago—before she understood what missions did to him, before she learned that he always assessed threats before comfort.
She wasn’t surprised. She wished she was.
He moved past her, not unkindly, but with a purpose that left no room for hesitation.
His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, the white of his shirt stark against the wreckage of her living room.
The heat coming off him was almost palpable, but he didn’t pause long enough for her to feel it. Not directly.