Chapter Fourteen
Groaning, Grace sank onto the edge of the bathtub, her limbs heavy, her mind even heavier.
Night had closed over Crossfire Creek by the time she and Beck dragged themselves back to his place, and exhaustion clung to her bones like lead. Another round of statements. Another round of questions with no real answers.
Who wanted them dead?
Who had been in that truck?
Everything blurred into the same maddening dead end, and they were back to square one. Well, almost. She certainly felt the fatigue of the fight. It had taken a serious toll on her mind and body.
Beck set aside their coats and weapons, the quiet scrape of leather and metal against the counter a sharp contrast to the silence filling the house.
He crouched in front of her now, focused, his medic’s concentration taking over.
His hands worked carefully as he eased up her shirt, exposing her ribs and stomach.
The chill of the bathroom air prickled over her skin.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
With practiced fingers, he peeled away the old bandage, his touch precise, clinical. Still, Grace felt every brush of his knuckles as though it wasn’t just medical care but something far more intimate.
She forced her gaze up to the ceiling, fighting the awareness, the ache that wasn’t from her wounds at all.
She could feel him studying the bruises, the tender stretch of skin where the glue held the cuts closed.
And she hated how much it mattered to her that Beck Culver, of all people, was the one doing this.
“You’re healing,” he said after a beat. “Not fast, but you’re holding together.”
His words should have been purely clinical, but to Grace they sounded like something else, something layered. Something she wasn’t sure she had the strength to untangle tonight.
Beck worked with an easy efficiency, taping down the last fresh bandage before rising to his feet. “That should hold you,” he said, his tone even. “Now let me heat up some chili I’ve got stashed in the freezer.”
Grace opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her a look that stopped her cold. “You need food, Grace. Even if you don’t feel like it.”
She pressed her lips together. He was right, of course, but her stomach was knotted too tight to imagine eating. Beck must have read the reluctance in her eyes because he added, almost casually, “I’ve got hot chocolate.”
Her resolve wavered. He knew how to manage that. Of course he knew. She sighed and pushed herself up from the tub, following him out into the kitchen. Beck gestured for her to sit at the island, and she did, lowering herself onto one of the stools.
He moved around the kitchen like it was second nature, pulling a container from the freezer, popping it into the microwave, then filling the electric kettle for cocoa.
The simple domesticity of it hit her harder than she expected.
After everything—the gunfire, the explosions, the interrogations—this quiet, ordinary rhythm nearly undid her.
She wrapped her arms lightly around her middle, more for comfort than pain, and just watched him.
The way his broad shoulders filled the space.
The way his movements were sure, measured, as though nothing could rattle him.
The emotions of the day pressed in, sharp and suffocating, and she realized how much she had been relying on that steadiness, on him.
Beck glanced up from the counter and caught her staring. His smile was brief, but it carried a warmth that unraveled something tight inside her. He leaned across the island and brushed a quick kiss over her mouth, leaving her heart stumbling in its rhythm before he turned back to the cabinets.
“Don’t overthink this,” he said, pulling out mugs and the box of cocoa mix. His tone was light, but his eyes held hers. “We’ll work it all out later.”
Grace knew exactly what he meant. Not the case, not Jonah or Denny or Elena or Silas. Them. This raw, magnetic pull that no firefight or fractured past had been able to kill.
She didn’t answer, didn’t trust her voice, but she followed him with her eyes as he poured the steaming water, stirred the cocoa, then shook out a handful of mini marshmallows onto the top of each mug.
He slid one across the counter to her, and she wrapped her hands around the warmth, breathing in the sweet, chocolatey scent.
“See?” Beck said with a small grin. “Almost worth the day we had.”
Her lips curved despite the exhaustion weighing her down. Almost.
Grace lifted the mug and let the warmth seep into her hands before taking a careful sip.
The rich taste was comforting, tugging her back from the edge of exhaustion.
Across the island, Beck did the same, his eyes on her for a heartbeat before he set his mug down and pulled the chili from the microwave.
He stirred it once, the spoon clinking against the ceramic bowl, when his phone chimed.
He reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen.
His jaw tightened as he read. “It’s Noah,” Beck said.
“Update on the truck. It was Silas’ all right.
But the body inside…” He let out a breath.
“Too blown apart for a visual ID. The lab says it might be a while before they can confirm if it was Silas or not.”
Grace let out a long, weary sigh and set her mug back on the counter. The frustration pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Beck caught the sound, and in the next moment he was moving toward her. He slipped an arm around her waist and gently eased her up from the stool.
She didn’t resist when he pulled her into his arms. The strength of him, the solid warmth of his body, cut through the exhaustion, steadying her. His breath brushed her hair, his hold firm but careful, mindful of her injuries.
The heat that always simmered between them stirred to life again, impossible to ignore. She lifted her face to him, and his mouth came down on hers. The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was deep, aching, and full of all the things neither of them had dared say aloud.
The kiss deepened, the heat between them rising with every brush of his mouth against hers.
He tasted faintly of cocoa, warm and sweet, and it wrapped around her senses like a drug.
The exhaustion, the fear, the constant undercurrent of danger melted away in that moment.
All she felt was Beck. The steady press of his chest against hers.
The way his hand slid up her back, anchoring her to him.
Her heart pounded as if it would break free, and when her fingers tightened in his shirt to draw him closer, a sharp pain tore through her arm. She gasped and winced, the sudden flare of it breaking through the haze.
Beck pulled back at once, his hands falling from her.
His eyes searched her face, concern cutting through the heat.
He looked ready to scold her for pushing herself too far, but he didn’t.
Instead he gave her a steady, grounding stare that told her he would put her well-being before anything else, even before the fire burning between them.
Their gazes stayed locked, the air between them still charged, her breath coming faster than she wanted to admit.
“Don’t make me break out the bubble wrap for those injuries,” he said.
The dryness in his tone caught her off guard, and a laugh escaped her before she could stop it. It felt good. Not as good as that scalding kiss that still tingled on her lips, but still good in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
He tipped his head toward her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “After the day we’ve had, you deserve more than just chili and cocoa. I’m going to make you a grilled cheese with more cheese than should be legally allowed.”
Grace laughed again, the sound easier this time. The tightness in her chest loosened, just a little, and she let herself sink into the moment.
Beck busied himself at the stove, buttering the bread and layering in thick slices of cheese before pressing the sandwiches on the skillet.
The scent of sizzling butter filled the kitchen, rich and comforting.
He flipped the sandwiches, golden brown now, and moved to the pot on the stove to ladle chili into bowls.
Once the sandwiches were crisp and perfect, he plated them, set the bowls beside them, and carried everything to the island.
Grace’s stomach gave a small growl at the sight, and Beck offered a faint grin as he sat down next to her. They had only gotten a few bites in when his phone buzzed against the counter. He checked the screen, and his grin faded.
“It’s Isla,” he said, already answering.
Isla’s voice carried through the speaker, brisk and direct. “Beck, you got a monitor nearby? You’ll want to see this.”
He crossed to the fridge, tapping the screen until it flickered to life. Grace slid off her stool to stand beside him, her stomach tightening as the feed loaded.
“I managed to pick up Elena’s trail about four blocks from the hospital,” Isla said. “Doorbell cam footage. Resolution’s lousy, but it’ll do.”
The grainy image steadied, showing a narrow street glistening with sleet under the glow of a porch light. Grace leaned closer, her pulse quickening when a figure came into view. Even with the fuzzy pixels, she recognized Elena. Her posture was rigid, her steps uneven as if every movement cost her.
“That’s her,” Grace whispered.
Grace’s throat went dry as the image shifted, and a truck eased into the frame. It rolled to a stop beside Elena. Even through the blur, Grace recognized the bulky frame of the man in the cab.
“Silas,” Beck muttered, his tone clipped.
Isla’s voice carried through the speaker. “Timestamp puts this about fifteen minutes after she bolted from the EMTs.”
Grace watched as the grainy footage caught Elena leaning toward the truck window. No sound carried, but Elena’s body language was sharp and agitated, her hands cutting through the cold air, while Silas stayed behind the wheel with his shoulders tight.
The camera didn’t give much more. Their faces never angled toward it, leaving Isla no chance to use one of her lip-reading programs.
Still, the tension was clear. Elena jerked her head once, then yanked the passenger door open and climbed inside.
The truck rolled forward and disappeared from view, leaving only the empty stretch of sleet-slick street behind.
“Elena chose to go with him,” Grace murmured, her pulse beating hard in her ears.
“Maybe,” Isla said. “But we can’t see Silas’ hands. He could’ve had a weapon pointed at her the whole time.”
Grace nodded slowly, her stomach tightening. “You’re right. She could have been forced.”
Beck spoke up, his tone edged with thought. “At the creek, we only saw one body in Silas’ truck. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t another one. Elena could have been inside, too.”
“I don’t think so,” Isla countered. There was the sound of keys clacking in the background, then another video loaded onto the screen.
This footage was worse than the last, grainy and blurred by sleet.
“This came off a delivery truck’s dash cam.
It caught Silas’ truck out on the farm road near the bridge. ”
The image wavered with the motion of the dash cam. Even through the grain, Grace could see the outline of Silas’ truck. She held her breath as she leaned closer to the monitor.
Only one shadowed figure sat behind the wheel.
“It’s impossible to make out a face,” Isla went on. “But it’s clear there’s only one person in the cab.”
Grace’s chest tightened. “So, is that Elena? Or Silas? And where’s the other one?”
Beck’s jaw flexed, his gaze locked on the screen. “If only one of them was there, then the other might already be dead.”
The thought chilled Grace more than the storm outside. “Or it could mean the one who was alive was the killer.”
Isla’s voice crackled back through the speaker. “I’ve got one more thing to show you. Hold tight.”
Grace’s gaze didn’t leave the screen as the next clip loaded. The sleet-smeared view was from another dash cam, this one from a different delivery truck coming down the opposite side of the bridge.
At first, all Grace saw was the rain-streaked blur of trees and the shimmer of water from the creek. Then her stomach gave a lurch. An SUV sat pulled off the narrow road, parked near the very stretch of woods where the shooter had pinned them down.
Her mouth went dry. “That’s right where the gunfire came from,” she whispered.
“Exactly,” Isla said, her voice sharper now. “And here’s the kicker. I ran the plates. That SUV belongs to Denny.”