Chapter 25
HAWK
I stay embedded inside her as the release shudders through me.
Then we lie there, holding each other for a few moments, until I have to get up and use the bathroom.
I take care of business, and when I get back, Daniela has fallen back to sleep.
Poor baby. She’s been through so much.
But I have some things to do today. It’s Sunday, the only day I usually take off from working the ranch. But today I have bigger fish to fry.
I get into the shower, remembering the beautiful shower I took last night with Daniela. Next time, we’ll be fucking in the shower. Last night, we just needed to get clean.
I wash my hair quickly, slide the shower wash over my body, rinse, and turn off the water.
I was hoping Daniela might join me, but once I’ve dried off and returned to the bedroom, I find her still asleep. Her soft breathing is a comfort to me. I don’t want to wake her.
But shit. I drove her here. Her car is back at Raven and Vinnie’s place.
She can call an Uber, but I’m not inclined to have her in the presence of a strange man for the long-ass drive back to Austin, especially after my own sister had a harrowing experience with an Uber driver when she was first dating Vinnie.
I call my sister.
“What the hell are you calling about so early on a Sunday morning?” she yawns into the phone.
“Sorry, Ray. It’s just… Daniela spent the night here last night.”
“I assumed as much. She okay?”
“Yeah. We’re both fine. But… I have some work to get done around town, and her car is at your place.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. You want us to pick her up, don’t you?”
“Actually, she’s still asleep. Probably will be for a couple hours. So ideally you’d just…drop her car off.” I pace the room. “I’d call an Uber, but after what you went through…”
“Yeah. Good point. And someone is clearly out to get her right now.”
“So you’ll get her car down?”
“Yeah. I’ll have Natalie drive her car, and then I’ll bring the both of us back home.”
“Great. I’ll leave you some cash for coffee.”
She chuckles. “Save it. It’s not like either of us is hurting for money. Just promise me one thing, Hawk.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to go look for trouble, are you?”
I pause. “Of course not.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“I swear I’m not doing anything unsavory. Scout’s honor. I just have some work that can’t wait.”
“Fine. I’ll get Natalie now.”
“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You owe me.”
“Indeed I do. Love you. Bye.”
“Love you too. I’ll text you when I’ve dropped the car off. I’ll leave the keys somewhere Dani will find them.”
She ends the call.
Thank God for Raven.
I scribble a quick note and leave it on the nightstand on Daniela’s side of the bed.
Sweetheart,
I have some errands to run this morning. You’re welcome to hang as long as you want or go home if you’d rather. Raven is bringing your car over. The code to the front door is 5791 so you can lock it behind you if you leave.
Hawk.
I slide my phone into the pocket of my jeans, throw a T-shirt over my head, and leave quietly, closing the door.
My housekeeper doesn’t work on Sundays, so Daniela will be alone.
She’ll be safe in my home, as I have excellent security.
I walk out to my truck.
Thoughts race through my head. The flowers that were delivered to Daniela at the hospital.
Specifically to Eagle’s room. They’re still in the backseat of my truck.
I have to have them analyzed. I also need to check those security tapes as soon as I can, but I already know who’s behind it.
I quickly take the flowers inside and set them on the kitchen counter. I’ll deal with them later.
Jordan is the only one who knew we were at the hospital. Who also knew—and I have to figure out how—that Eagle had OD’d.
While it wasn’t Jordan himself who delivered the flowers, someone must have done it at his behest.
I return to the truck, get in, and take out my phone while sitting in the driver’s seat. I click on my search engine to access voter records.
I find Jordan’s and quickly program his address into my map app.
He lives in a small house near the culinary school in an Austin suburb. It’s early yet, so I drive to the address, switching the station to my favorite country rock.
The music eases into the day with the warm twang of steel guitar and the steady, unhurried rhythm of a snare drum. A male voice sings about dirt roads, second chances, and Sunday grace.
It’s country rock at its gentlest, where the electric guitar hums low under the harmony, and every chord seems to carry the smell of strong coffee and fresh biscuits. Between songs, the DJ’s voice is mellow, almost reverent, talking about family, faith, and the quiet joy of a Sunday morning.
I arrive at the small home in the Austin suburb. It’s unassuming—single-story brick, the kind of place that hides behind drawn blinds and a neatly trimmed yard.
Now what?
I can’t go knock on the door. Jordan will recognize me. I need to wait until he comes out, but it’s Sunday, so I could be waiting a while.
Still, since I don’t have any other plan in mind—very unlike me, I’ll admit—I park across the street and sit in my car, waiting.
I check my email, my texts. Take care of a few business things for tomorrow, and I’m about ready to call Daniela and see if she’s up when—
The garage door opens, and a Ford Focus pulls out and onto the street.
I recognize Jordan in the driver’s seat. Knowing he can’t see me behind my tinted windows, I pull out and follow him.
I want to keep a few cars back, but on a Sunday morning, that’s difficult. Not too many people are out, especially this early.
I follow him a few blocks until we reach a large building.
A large building with a steeple.
He’s going to church?
I suppose it’s not all that surprising. A lot of bad people go to church. They break every commandment in the book during the week and then on Sunday go to church looking for absolution.
Just the kind of hypocrites I can’t stand.
Shockingly, Jordan may be one of them.
It’s still early, about eight o’clock.
Seems early for a church service, but I watch as Jordan walks inside, along with several others.
I hold back for a few minutes, finding a spot a few blocks away, and then I exit my car and walk toward the entrance of the building.
Once I’m inside, a middle-aged woman with way too much red lipstick hands me a pamphlet.
“Welcome,” she says.
I take it. “Thank you very much.”
She squints. “I don’t recognize you. Are you new to the area?”
“I am.” I paste on a smile. “Just checking out churches in my neighborhood.”
“Wonderful. We hope you enjoy the service and that you’ll join us again.”
“I hope so too.”
“My name is Patrice.” She holds out her hand.
“Frank Dirkwood,” I say.
“So glad to have you here, Frank. Pastor Trout is a wonderful preacher.”
Trout? He’s also named for a fish. “Glad to hear it. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.”
I head into the sanctuary, looking for Jordan.
And surprisingly…he’s actually up front. With an acoustic guitar.
I steal a seat in the back and open my church bulletin.
I scan it quickly—sure enough, Jordan Fletcher is a member of the church’s praise band.
Wow.
That’s a perfect job for a serial killer. No one would suspect a fucking thing.
The band is made up of Jordan on the guitar, a drummer, a keyboardist, and a saxophone.
Bizarre combination.
There’s also a huge pipe organ, where an organist sits.
A moment later, the organist begins to play. The people around me pick up hymnals, open them, and begin to sing.
The lyrics are pure Sunday morning—about grace, redemption, and the promise of a better world—and the congregation sings them like they’ve known them since childhood. Some sway slightly. The organ swells beneath it all, its deep, resonant notes anchoring the more modern instruments.
I keep my head down, my voice silent. The service continues.
Readings from scripture, a sermon. When communion is announced, a line forms in the aisle.
I stay seated, thumbing through the bulletin, pretending to read, though I steal several glances at Jordan.
He’s chatting with the keyboardist between songs, smiling, like this is a normal Sunday morning with his praise band cronies.
The image doesn’t fit the man I suspect he is. But that’s the trick, isn’t it?
Once the closing hymn is over, I rise, leave the sanctuary, bypassing the pastor who’s shaking hands, and find an obscure spot in the narthex of the church where I can keep my bulletin over my face and scan the crowd.
Once the pastor is done shaking hands with everyone, some people leave, but others stay. The majority move toward a large door on the other side of the entryway.
Once only a few stragglers are standing around in the lobby, I walk toward the door.
It’s a fellowship hall.
I walk in.
Breakfast.
Apparently the church ladies have prepared a pancake breakfast. Do they do this every week?
I look around.
Where is Jordan?
I inhale. Warm batter and maple syrup, sweet and heavy.
Folding tables line the walls, each draped in mismatched cloths, with syrup pitchers and paper plates set out.
A few elderly women bustle near the griddles, their aprons dusted with flour.
The sound of low conversation mixes with the faint clink of a coffee pot lid being lifted and set back down.
I step farther inside. Parents corral small children toward the food line.
An old man in suspenders is holding court at a corner table, his voice carrying above the murmur.
But no sign of Jordan. My pulse kicks, not from fear but from the heightened stakes.
I move slowly between tables, pretending to be just another visitor grabbing breakfast.
I stop when I find him.