CHAPTER 6
Tessa
Iwake in that thin, disorienting space between sleep and awareness where my body knows I’m safe but my mind hasn’t caught up to where I am.
It’s my second morning waking up in a strange place, but oddly…
not that strange. I think that has to do with being here with Cole, who just naturally brings a home-like familiarity because of our past. Regardless, between the security of the building, having a former Special Forces guy looking after me, and a host of other trained agents within feet, a girl couldn’t feel safer.
I throw on a pair of sweatpants to go with the tank I’d worn to bed to allow some modesty and head into the living area. I can immediately tell Cole isn’t in the apartment by the stillness. He has a natural energy surrounding him at all times and it’s noticeably absent.
The space looks exactly like Cole—clean, spare, functional.
There’s nothing decorative to soften edges.
His boots are lined up near the door like he’s ready to walk out at a moment’s notice, and his jacket hangs from the back of a chair with the kind of casual precision that tells me he put it there without thinking and still made it neat.
In the corner, his duffel is zipped, resting against the wall, and even that feels like a statement.
Prepared. Always.
I move into the small kitchen, and my gaze catches on a single coffee mug set out beside the pot, clean and waiting. Next to it is a folded note—plain paper, nothing fancy—weighted with a spoon.
Gym. Back soon. Coffee’s fresh.
—C
I stare at that for longer than makes sense, not because it’s romantic but because it’s familiar.
Because I’ve lived inside the rhythm of him before and I recognize the small ways he takes care of people without turning it into a performance.
There’s no flourish, no “Good morning” scrawled in a heart, just a quiet assumption that I’ll need caffeine and that he’ll make sure it’s there.
It’s honestly one of the things I loved best about him. His care for me was tangible.
I pour myself a cup and take a sip, humming with approval as the bitterness hits my tongue. I carry it to the dining table where my laptop sits closed and ready for action.
Work. Focus. Evidence. That’s what I’m here for.
That’s what I tell myself as I open the computer and the folders populate the screen, each one labeled with tight, organizational prowess. Josie—or BOB—did an amazing job of sorting and organizing the hundreds upon hundreds of documents and then put them on their encrypted server.
There’s a summary open in another tab—spreadsheets, charts, graphs—her way of taking a mountain of information and cutting it down into digestible bites. I’m grateful for it in the way you’re grateful for a flashlight when you’re walking into the dark.
I start where I left off last night, digging deeper into the financials because if RainVest is doing what I suspect they’re doing, the money is where their arrogance will show. People can hide intent behind language all day long, but transactions have weight.
And they leave trails in the form of vendor payments, retainers, and consulting fees.
Fifteen minutes into my perusal and at the start of my second cup of coffee, halfway down a column of otherwise forgettable names, one vendor repeats often enough to snag my attention.
Strategic Asset Protection Group, sometimes abbreviated SAPG.
I click into the first invoice and read it the way I’ve learned to scan documents that matter, letting my eyes hunt for anything that feels out of place. It looks clean, corporate, plausible.
Produced on fancy letterhead with official-looking billing codes. A retainer structure that could mean anything from executive protection to a threat assessment.
The line-item description is bland enough to pass in any expense report: Strategic Risk Mitigation Services.
I should be able to shrug it off. Plenty of companies retain security and plenty of CEOs like to feel important.
But it prickles at me anyway, and when I look at the dates—really focus on them—my pulse picks up.
I pull my wildfire timeline spreadsheet alongside it, the one Josie helped assemble, and I cross-reference the invoice date with the ignition date of the corresponding fire.
Red flag advisory: June 5
Ignition: June 6
Invoice issued: June 7
I blink, then do it again because my brain doesn’t believe in patterns that sharp. I scroll further down to another SAPG invoice.
High wind advisory: August 16
Ignition: August 17
Invoice: August 17
I feel my throat go dry as I keep going.
September. Another June the previous year. No, two in June the previous year.
It’s absolutely more than coincidence. I sit back slowly, coffee cooling in my hand, and stare at the screen as the implications start to settle.
RainVest is a development company. They don’t fight fires.
They don’t investigate fires. They buy land, build, then sell profit back to investors.
So why are they paying a private security firm—repeatedly—right before fires ignite in the very corridors they later acquire?
It doesn’t prove they set the fires, but it suggests planning and coordination. It suggests that someone is paying someone else to manage risk in a way that isn’t about protection.
In my gut, I know that RainVest is paying SAPG to start the fires.
A flush of excitement warms me up from the inside out and my first instinct is to tell Cole immediately.
Not because I need his approval, but because he understands systems and threats and the kinds of people who pay for actions they don’t want traced back to them.
He’ll see the shape of this faster than I will.
I close the laptop because I’m not going to sit here alone with my thoughts spinning themselves into a frenzy. I stand, stretching my shoulders the way I did yesterday after hours at the table, only this time it’s less about stiffness and more about shaking off my nerves coiling tight.
Cole said he was at the gym and I can bring him up to speed there.
I change quickly into workout clothes—leggings, a tank—more for the excuse than the exercise, twisting my hair up and grabbing my phone.
When I step out of the apartment, I hesitate at the door, fingers hovering over the lock, and the fact that I consider leaving it open tells me how much the building has already gotten under my skin.
Good security and trust will do that to you.
To get to the gym, I have to cross the community area.
Cole told me that the Jameson focus on camaraderie is a core value.
It’s built to foster relationships and encourage friendships, cementing bonds far beyond what is cultivated in the normal course of work.
The kitchen is upscale and expansive, with professional appliances and a long communal table that looks like it’s hosted everything from team dinners to tense late-night strategy sessions.
Beyond it is a living space with deep couches, a massive TV, video game consoles, a pool table and dart board, and a bar that’s stocked like someone planned for both celebration and exhaustion.
It’s a strange contrast—men trained to hurt other men for a living in a space that looks like it belongs in a high-end condo brochure.
And then I see a woman in the kitchen, unloading groceries.
She’s not in tactical gear. She’s not carrying herself like an agent. She’s dressed casually, hair pulled back, moving with ease like she belongs here, not because she works here but because she’s loved by someone who does.
When she hears me, I get a smile that says she already knows who I am.
“You must be Tessa,” she says, like we’re meeting at a dinner party instead of inside a fortified building
I stop mid-step. “That obvious?”
She laughs softly. “Not obvious. Just informed. I’m Anna… Malik’s wife.”
That makes sense. If Malik is the director of this office, then his wife is probably the only person who can wander this floor without a badge and not be questioned. There are several grocery bags on the counter and she’s currently stocking the fridge with milk and juice.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“No, no,” she says, shooing me toward a stool at the island.
“I was just restocking for the guys. They act like grocery shopping is an optional skill, and while they have their own kitchens in their apartments, I find if I give them options out here they tend to be more community oriented, and I think that’s important. ”
I smile despite myself. “Cole had takeout containers all over his table last night.”
“Shocking,” she deadpans, and then her expression softens almost maternally as she gestures to the bags.
“I like to keep them in essentials. They’re good at what they do, but they forget they’re human.
I cook sometimes too. Tonight I’m doing a big lasagna so if you’re still here, you should eat with us. ”
It’s such a simple invitation, and it hits me oddly hard, because I can’t remember the last time someone offered me a home-cooked meal.
I’m a workaholic, don’t have many friends and I don’t have the best relationship with my mother, who rarely fed me anything more than mac and cheese when I was growing up.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “But I’m staying at my house tonight, and well… every night thereafter.”
Anna chuckles. “I understand Cole is on protective detail and the man needs to eat. So let him bring you here for a dinner, and then you can hunker down in your house after.”