Chapter 3 #2
"We'll look into Detective Tanner," Hartwell says. "In the meantime, I'm assigning a protection detail. Lieutenant Commander Lange has volunteered to provide security until we determine the nature of the threat."
My head snaps toward Lange. "You volunteered?"
He meets my gaze without flinching. "Someone blew up your boat. Until we know who and why, you need protection."
"I can handle myself." The protest is automatic.
"Clearly." Lange's tone is dry. "That's why your boat's at the bottom of the Atlantic, your apartment was ransacked, and you swallowed half the ocean."
Anger flares hot in my chest. "I didn't ask for your help."
"No," he agrees. "You were too busy drowning."
Dr. Abernathy clears her throat. "Perhaps we can table the sparring match until after I finish my exam?"
Lange has the grace to look slightly chagrined. I just glare at him, which probably doesn't help my case.
Hartwell closes her tablet. "The protection detail isn't optional, Dr. McKay. Until we clear you, you'll have an escort. Lieutenant Commander Lange is qualified and available."
Every instinct tells me to refuse. To handle this myself, the way I've handled everything since leaving Seattle. But someone blew up my boat. Someone stole my laptop, or at least broke into my apartment. Someone is targeting me specifically.
And exhaustion settles deep. Tired of treading water, of keeping everyone at arm's length, of being constantly vigilant against threats that might or might not materialize.
Maybe accepting help doesn't make me weak. Maybe it just makes me practical.
"Alright," I say. "Lange can stay."
Something shifts in Lange's eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Or relief.
"Good." Hartwell nods. "I'll have his things moved to the vacant apartment next to yours. We lease it to use for off-base visitors. He'll be with you until we resolve this."
Until we resolve this. Meaning he'll be sleeping next door. Meaning I'll see him every day. Meaning there's no escape from the attraction I've been trying to ignore for three months.
This is going to get complicated.
Hartwell leaves with a promise to keep me updated. "Crime scene team is finished processing your apartment. You're clear to return, but I'd recommend staying somewhere else tonight."
Dr. Abernathy discharges me with prescriptions for pain medication and strict orders to rest.
"Your lungs are clear enough for now," she tells me. "But another minute underwater and the damage would've been permanent. You were lucky. Rest, take the medications as directed, and if you have any trouble breathing, come back immediately."
Lucky. That word keeps coming up.
Someone hands me a bag with dry clothes retrieved from my apartment. Jeans, a soft t-shirt, clean underwear. I change in the bathroom, wincing at every movement. Everything hurts. But the pain is manageable.
When I emerge, Lange has found a shirt somewhere. Navy issue, tight across his shoulders in a way that should be illegal.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No," I say honestly. "But let's go anyway."
The walk to his truck is short. Lange opens the passenger door, waits until I'm settled before closing it. Small gestures. Respectful. Nothing like Bruce, who used to grab my arm, steer me where he wanted, invade my space without asking.
Lange slides behind the wheel and starts the engine.
"Your apartment or somewhere else?" he asks.
"My apartment." I buckle the seatbelt carefully, avoiding pressure on my ribs. "I need to see what they did."
He nods and pulls out of the parking area. We drive in silence for a few minutes, the base passing by outside the windows.
"You don't have to babysit me," I say finally. "I'm sure you have better things to do."
"Nothing more important than making sure you stay alive." He glances at me, then back at the road. "Besides, I volunteered. Means I want to be here."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us. Why would a SEAL team leader volunteer to protect a prickly marine biologist he barely knows?
Lange is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Because I've been watching you for three months, and someone just tried to kill you. I'd like to make sure they don't succeed."
Simple. Direct. No games, no manipulation. Honest intent.
That's what makes him different.
We pull up outside my apartment building. Lange parks and is out of the truck before I can reach for the handle, offering a hand to help me down. I take it, hating how much I need the support.
My apartment is on the first floor. The walk from the truck feels longer than it should. By the time we reach my door, I'm breathing hard and my ribs are screaming.
The door is already open. Crime scene tape across the frame.
I step inside and stop.
My grandmother's quilt—slashed, stuffing pulled out and scattered. The framed photo of my parents on their research vessel—shattered on the floor, glass everywhere. Drawers dumped, books torn apart, couch cushions cut open. Even the mattress in my bedroom is slashed, springs exposed.
They weren't just looking for something. They wanted to violate every corner of my life.
My legs go weak. Lange catches my elbow, steadying me.
"Hey." His voice is gentle. "Let me help you clean this up."
"This is my home." The words sound hollow even to me.
"I know." He's still holding my elbow, warm and steady. "And whoever did this might come back. So let me help now, and then we figure out where you're staying tonight."
Part of me wants to send him away. The same part that changed my name and fled across the country rather than ask for help.
But my boat is at the bottom of the ocean. My apartment is destroyed. And I'm too tired to keep fighting alone.
I don't need a hero. I need answers.
But I can accept help while I find them. As long as Lange understands this is temporary. Protection, not possession. Partnership, not control.
The difference between the two is everything. And I'm trusting him to know where that line is.