Chapter Five
EMMA
The painkillers were wearing off, which meant I felt the helicopter’s vibration throughout my body. I shifted in my seat. No position spared my ribs. When I tried again and pain shot up my left side, I gripped the harness strap and squeezed my eyes closed.
“Deep breaths,” Kodiak said from the jump seat beside me.
I leaned into him and let my shoulder settle against his.
He could think it was the drugs, the exhaustion, or that the vibration lessened when I braced against something solid.
None of that was true. It was his warmth I craved.
I’d replayed California more times than I’d admit.
His jokes, how he’d found excuses to touch the small of my back, the look he’d get when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
I’d told myself it was the cover, that it didn’t mean anything beyond the job.
Then it had stopped, and I understood how much I’d let myself believe.
Would I see that version of him again, or was it gone for good?
When he didn’t pull away, I ached to wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. If I’d tried, the soreness would’ve been excruciating. Maybe it would’ve been worth it.
The mainland had disappeared. One minute, there were lights on the horizon, and the next, there weren’t.
Sixteen miles of open water now sat between me and the person who wanted me dead, and I should have felt safer.
Instead, my stomach dropped the way it did when you realized you’d driven past your exit and the next one was miles away.
My career, my townhouse, and the things that defined me were in the opposite direction from where I was headed.
Like the funny, flirty, sexy-as-hell Kodiak, would any of it return?
Hindsight, as they say. It was a recurring theme in my life.
I blinked the tears away. Self-pity had brought them.
If Kodiak noticed—and he would because he saw what most people missed—he might misread them, or worse, comfort me, and I didn’t want that.
I craved his affection, given without effort, the way it had been before.
I bit the inside of my cheek and forced air through my nose until the regret retreated.
The helicopter banked, and I leaned harder into his shoulder. His hand came off his knee and landed on my forearm for two seconds, then lifted. He’d given me that length of comfort before withdrawing.
“Two minutes,” the pilot said over the headset.
My whole body throbbed as I prepared for landing.
The altitude dropped, and my stomach went with it. Below us, a floodlit concrete pad cut into a tree line. Dark water stretched past it in all directions.
Kodiak unbuckled before the skids touched. He was out and reaching for me by the time the rotors began winding down. His hand was extended like this was a routine extraction. For him, it probably was.
I set my palm in his because my ribs made getting out unassisted embarrassing at best and dangerous at worst. His grip was firm and impersonal and lasted as long as it needed to. When my feet hit concrete, he let go.
“The gravel’s uneven,” he said. “Watch your step.”
“I know how to walk,” I mumbled. The chopper’s noise guaranteed he wouldn’t hear me.
The first step sent a jolt up my left side, making me grab his arm. He steadied me without the dry remark the old Kodiak would have made—a joke about my stubbornness, delivered with the grin I used to pretend annoyed me. This version adjusted his pace to mine and stayed quiet.
“You can say it,” I said.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you’re holding in right now.”
His mouth twitched. It wasn’t a full grin, but it was close. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
There he was. One flash, and he was gone again, but it was enough to remind me that the man I remembered was in there, somewhere. I straightened, let go of his arm, and walked on my own. The ribs could scream. I was done being helped.
The path from the pad led to a house with a deep porch and curtained windows.
“Whose place is this?” I asked.
“A friend named Gunner. He built most of it himself.”
“I was bracing for concrete walls and a cot.”
He almost smiled. “Gunner and his wife, Zary, would take that as a personal insult.”
Flower pots flanked the porch steps, and a welcome mat lay by the front entry. A wind chime made from spent shell casings hung from the eaves. This man had built a life on a private island in the middle of the Chesapeake, and he’d decorated it with ammunition.
“I like him already,” I said.
Kodiak went up the steps and held the door.
What I walked into wasn’t sterile. It was a home where people ate dinner, read books, and enjoyed the quiet.
Framed photos crowded the shelves—kids at the beach, a woman who must be Zary laughing with her head thrown back, and a man I assumed was Gunner holding a toddler on his hip.
The fridge had magnets from state parks and a crayon drawing of what might have been a dog or a horse.
Mismatched mugs crowded the shelf above the sink—ceramic, chipped, collected over the years.
I hated how sad it made me. I had a few photos scattered throughout my townhouse, but I’d never planted flowers.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d used my stove versus the microwave, and half the time, my fridge stored condiments and nothing else.
Kodiak’s place was no better. It looked more like what I imagined a safe house would.
Neither of us had built anything close to what Gunner and Zary had.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked from behind me.
I turned. “Yeah. No. I mean, the soreness is getting to me.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” He grabbed my bag, dug out the pills the hospital pharmacy had provided, and placed one in my open palm. When he opened the fridge to get a bottle of water and I saw how stocked it was, I rolled my eyes.
“What was that?” He twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to me.
“Grown-ups live here.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’m realizing I’m not one.”
“You adult better than I do.”
“That isn’t saying much.” I winked, and he smiled. Thank God.
He gave me the tour in under five minutes. The kitchen was stocked, and the study next to it had a desk with a secure line for the investigation. He showed me where extra pillows and blankets were kept.
He was more relaxed here than he’d been at his place. Talking without measuring his words, pointing things out without being asked, letting sentences run to their natural end instead of cutting them short. I needed more of that version and less of the one who’d been managing me like an assignment.
The final cabinet he opened had a single bottle of bourbon on its shelf.
“Is that medicinal?” I asked.
“According to Gunner, everything here is medicinal.”
I smiled before I could stop myself.
“This is your room,” he said when we reached the end of the hall.
The space was small. A double bed filled most of it, and a window faced the water.
I walked past him and set the bag on the mattress. I hadn’t slept a full night since before the bomb.
“Bathroom is on the right,” he said from the doorway. “Fresh towels on the racks.”
“Where are you sleeping?” I blurted.
He pointed one room over. “Right there.”
I nodded.
“We’ll start on Alice’s data in the morning,” he said.
That was what I needed. He’d given me a reason to wake up and function tomorrow, one that ran on the part of my brain I trusted—the part that tracked money and didn’t confuse proximity for something else.
I called his name before he made it out of the doorway. “Thank you for all of this.”
He nodded once. “Get some rest, Emma.”
I kicked off my shoes, lay down, and was out.
I woke at two in the morning and didn’t know where I was. The ceiling was too low, the mattress too soft, and the sound outside wasn’t traffic; it was water lapping at something.
Then I remembered.
My left side seized when I shifted. I lay still for ten minutes, then twenty, and willed it to ease on its own. It didn’t. The pills were somewhere in the kitchen, and I had no choice but to get up and look for them.
A motion-activated nightlight turned on when I got within a foot of the hallway. Kodiak’s bedroom was open, but the bed was empty. Blue light from a laptop shone from the living area.
He was on the sofa, in the same clothes he’d had on earlier.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked without looking up.
“The pills wore off.”
He got up, found the bottle, and brought it with some water.
“You should go to bed,” he said after I swallowed one. “Give it twenty minutes.”
“What are you working on?”
“Alice’s logs. Go to bed, Emma.”
He returned to the sofa. I followed and sat beside him.
“There isn’t anyone else,” I blurted.
He raised his head.
“You said I was preoccupied at the wedding. I don’t know what you thought you saw, but there hasn’t been anyone in a long time.”
I’d expected relief once I said it. Instead, I felt exposed, stupid, and furious at myself for caring this much about a man who’d closed himself off without explanation.
I waited for a response that didn’t come.
I could have shaken him. More, I wanted to beg him to be the goofy, flirty guy I got to know in California.
“Okay, then.” I used one arm to push myself up because bending at the waist wasn’t an option.
“Emma—”
“You don’t owe me anything.” I picked up the water, which required bending over and wasn’t any easier than standing. “I said what I needed to say.”
I headed for the hallway. His footsteps followed.
“I thought I picked up on something,” he said. “I was wrong.”
I stopped with my back to him because I was going to cry and refused to let him see it.
“About what?”
He was quiet for so long that I took another step.
“That you wanted someone else.”
I turned.
“I didn’t. I don’t.”
He stepped closer, lifted his arm, then grabbed the closest doorframe. “I should’ve asked.”
“You should have.” I wiped my palms on my sweatpants. “Good night, Coleman.”
I waited. Not long, but long enough.
He raised his face to the ceiling and grimaced. In a split second, he steeled his expression. I hated how fucking good he was at that. “Good night, Emma.”
I made it to bed and willed the painkiller to work. Maybe, along with my ribs, the hurt in my chest would go away too.
We spent most of the following day on Alice’s data.
I’d discovered the theft three weeks ago—millions of dollars stolen from the VA, funneled through fake nonprofits that claimed to help veterans, but didn’t send a dime to anyone.
I’d assumed the three nonprofits were separate operations.
Yesterday, I’d realized I was wrong. One person had created all of them, incorporated them in different states, and used different names on the paperwork.
The same theft run three ways. Now, I needed to figure out what else I’d missed.
Midmorning, I took a break, stepped onto the porch, and called my mother. She answered before the first ring finished. “Emma Grace. I was about to dial you.”
“I know. Sorry. Things have been…hectic.”
“How are you doing?”
“Improving. Still sore, but I don’t need the painkillers as often, and my mind is clear enough that I’ve been working most of the morning.”
“You should be resting.”
“I’m taking it easy. I called to let you know I’m on medical leave for a few days, just to recover without being in a hurry.”
“Good. That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since this whole mess started.”
I let that go. “The other thing is the townhouse. It’s worse than what I told you. The entire first floor needs to be gutted, and we’re looking at weeks of restoration.”
She let out a deep breath, clearly restraining herself, which, with the way I felt, I’d let her and be grateful for it. “Where are you? And don’t say Brenna’s, because I called her this morning, and she wouldn’t let me talk to you. She wouldn’t have done that if you were there.”
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. A colleague has a place on the water. It’s quiet, and there’s room for me to work, and I didn’t want to camp out at Brenna and Atticus’ house indefinitely.”
“Come home, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
“Give me a couple more days, Mom. Then I’ll come see you.”
“All right. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
I ended the call and sat on the step for another minute before I went inside, opened my laptop, and got to work. Kodiak didn’t ask who I was talking to, and I didn’t offer.
When I took another break a couple of hours later and stretched my arms over my head, my left side seized from armpit to hip and I couldn’t bring my arms down.
Kodiak noticed, leaned forward, and pressed his palm flat on my left side. “Breathe out. Slowly.”
I tried. It came out in a hiss.
“Again. Slower.”
The second exhale eased the spasm, and I lowered my arms.
“Now, sit on the floor,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re gray. Get on the floor.”
He knelt beside me and placed both palms on my rib cage with his fingers spread across my spine.
“Inhale. Expand into my hands.”
I did, and it hurt. He adjusted the pressure.
“One more. Deeper.”
I inhaled, and he followed the expansion, then eased inward on the exhale. He had to have done this before—he was too good at it not to have experience.
When his thumb shifted half an inch below the lowest rib toward my waist, I willed it to stay there.
I put my hand over his.
When he stiffened under my palm, I braced for him to pull away or mumble an excuse, but he didn’t move.
“If you’re going to touch me there,” I said, “stop pretending it has anything to do with sore ribs.”
He was close enough for me to see the flecks of color in his irises. His attention dropped to my mouth, then he cupped my face with both hands and kissed me.