Chapter 5 #2
"Don't touch anything." His voice is calm, controlled, already pulling out his phone with his free hand. "Crime scene protocol. Hartwell needs to see this."
Crime scene. Right. Because someone caught a fish—pulled it from the ocean I study, killed it, arranged it with seaweed and sand—put it on my car, left a death threat in broad daylight where anyone could have seen them.
Someone knows what I study. Knows my work with coastal erosion. Knows about marine biology and ocean vulnerabilities and exactly how to twist that knowledge into psychological warfare designed to break me.
"He's here." The words scrape out of my throat, raw and sharp. "Bruce is here. He found me."
"We don't know that yet." Holden keeps his hand on my elbow, warm and steady against skin that's gone cold. "Could be Bruce. Could be someone who wants your research. Either way, they're escalating."
Escalating. Professional term for someone promising to kill me with increasing specificity.
The fish is an Atlantic croaker. Adult specimen, common in the Chesapeake Bay where I do my research. Whoever did this caught it locally. Killed it specifically for this message. Specifically to connect my work with death and disappearance.
That I study the ocean and its power to destroy.
That erosion takes everything eventually.
My work is about understanding the ocean. Predicting erosion. Protecting coastal infrastructure so bases don't crumble into the sea. I grew up on research boats with my marine biologist mother, learning to read tide pools and ecosystems before I could read chapter books.
Someone turned my life's work into a threat. Turned my expertise into a weapon.
Fury burns through the fear, hot and bitter and exhausting.
"I'm tired." The admission breaks loose before I can stop it. "I changed my name. Moved across the country. Started over. And someone still found me. Still wants to hurt me. When does it stop?"
"When we catch them." Holden turns me away from the car, away from the dead fish and the ocean water and the promise of violence. His hands frame my shoulders, gentle but firm, blocking my view of the grotesque display. "And we will catch them."
"You keep saying that. But what if you can't? What if this never stops?"
"It will stop. We will stop him one way or another." The words are simple, direct, carrying a weight that makes my throat tight. "Whoever did this made a mistake."
"What mistake?" The question comes out sharper than intended.
"They think threats will break you." His gray eyes hold mine, steady and certain in a way that feels like an anchor. "They don't know who they're dealing with."
The certainty in his voice cracks something inside me. The careful control I've been maintaining for days, for months, for years since Bruce made my life hell and taught me that showing weakness meant giving someone power to destroy you.
Exhaustion crashes over me like a wave. Bone-deep tiredness that has everything to do with being hunted, with being strong, with handling everything alone.
"I don't feel strong. I feel tired. And scared. And so damn angry that someone gets to do this to me."
"You're allowed to be all of those things." Holden's voice is gentle in a way that destroys what's left of my composure. "Being strong doesn't mean never breaking. It means breaking and putting yourself back together anyway."
The tears come before I can stop them. Silent at first, then harder, shaking my shoulders as everything I've been holding back breaks loose.
Holden pulls me against his chest without asking permission. One arm wraps around my back, solid and warm. The other hand cups the back of my head, tucking me into him like he can shield me from everything trying to hurt me.
"I've got you." His voice rumbles against my cheek, the vibration settling deep. "You're safe. I've got you."
True and exactly what I need to hear.
I should pull away. Should maintain distance, keep this professional, remember that Holden is protection not comfort.
But his heartbeat is steady under my ear, a rhythm that feels like safety. His arms are solid and warm. Nothing about this feels like confinement.
This feels like finally being able to stop fighting. Like sharing the weight instead of carrying it alone.
Bruce used to hold me and I'd count seconds until he let go. Stay vigilant against the moment affection turned to control.
Holden holds me and breathing gets easier. The knot in my chest loosens.
"Sorry. I don't usually fall apart like this."
"You're not falling apart." His hand moves in slow circles on my back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. "You're letting someone else carry some of the weight."
Protection without possession. Strength that doesn't demand submission. A man who sees my exhaustion and offers support instead of using it to gain leverage.
"How long do I get to hide here before it gets awkward?"
"As long as you need." No hesitation. No judgment. Just steady certainty. "This isn't awkward. This is human."
Human. When was the last time I let myself be that? Let myself be tired, scared, needing comfort instead of projecting competence and independence like armor?
Sirens wail in the distance. Getting closer. Hartwell responding to Holden's call, bringing crime scene techs and investigators and all the official machinery designed to catch whoever is doing this.
"They're coming," I say, not moving from where I'm pressed against Holden's chest.
"They can wait." His arms tighten slightly. Not restraining. Anchoring. "Take all the time you need."
Time. Such a simple gift. Permission to be weak a while longer. To let someone else be strong while I catch my breath and remember how to stand on my own.
The sirens get louder. Vehicles pulling into the parking lot. Doors slamming. Professional voices calling orders.
Reality returning whether I'm ready or not.
Holden's hand slides from my back to my shoulder, steadying me as I pull away. His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away tears I didn't realize were still falling.
"Better?"
"Getting there." The truth, surprisingly. The exhaustion is still there, the fear, the anger. But something else has joined them. Something that feels dangerously like hope.
Hope that this will end. That I'll be safe. That the man looking at me like I matter sees something worth protecting beyond an assignment.
"Lieutenant Commander Lange." Hartwell's voice cuts through the moment like a blade. "Dr. McKay. Fill me in."
Holden's hand drops from my shoulder but stays close, a silent reminder that he's here, that I'm not facing this alone.
The dead fish on my windshield is a message. Someone wants me afraid. Wants me broken. Wants me to stop asking questions and disappear the way Bruce always wanted.
But standing here with Holden's presence solid beside me, with the memory of his arms still warm against my back, the promise he made shifts something inside.
Being held doesn't have to mean being trapped. Accepting help doesn't make me weak.
Hartwell approaches the car, professional and efficient despite the grotesque display. Crime scene techs photograph the fish from multiple angles, bag the note with gloved hands, dust for prints that probably don't exist.
Holden stays beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Close enough that I can feel his presence like a shield between me and whatever comes next.
"You okay?" he asks quietly while Hartwell examines the evidence.
Not demanding strength I don't have. Just checking in. Making sure I'm still standing.
"Ask me tomorrow. Right now I'm tired of being someone's target."
"Then we make sure you're not a target much longer." His voice carries that calm certainty that made me believe him when he promised to catch whoever was doing this. "This ends. Soon."
Promises are dangerous. Bruce made promises too. Promised to love me, protect me. Then broke every one.
But Holden's promises sound different. Like commitments instead of manipulations.
"I'm going to hold you to that."
"Good." Something that might be a smile flickers across his face. "Hold me to every promise I make. I'll keep every one of them. That's how trust works."
Trust. The word I've been avoiding for years. The concept that feels impossible after Bruce taught me that trusting men meant giving them power to destroy you.
Except Holden has had plenty of opportunities to use my vulnerability against me. Has seen me exhausted, scared, breaking down in his arms. Has access to my apartment, my schedule, my entire life.
And every single time, he's chosen protection over possession. Support over control.
That has to mean something. Has to count for something in the careful accounting of who deserves trust and who weaponizes it.
Hartwell finishes her examination and approaches us, expression grim. "Preliminary assessment suggests the fish was caught elsewhere and transported here. The note was printed, not handwritten. No obvious prints on the paper or the vehicle."
"Professional," Holden says, voice flat. "Like the bomb."
"Like the bomb," Hartwell confirms. "Which means either Bruce Tanner has access to resources we didn't know about, or this threat is coming from a different direction entirely."
Different direction. Someone who wants my research. Someone who knows enough about my work to use it as psychological warfare.
Someone who is still out there. Still watching. Still planning whatever comes next.
"I want surveillance on Dr. McKay's vehicle," Holden says. "Cameras covering the parking lot. Motion sensors. If someone gets close again, we need to know."
"Already planned." Hartwell's gaze shifts to me, assessing. "Dr. McKay, I need you to think carefully. Besides Detective Tanner, who else knew about your marine biology work? Who would connect ocean threats specifically to your research and personal history?"
Everyone. The answer sits bitter on my tongue. Published papers, conference presentations, the contract with the base. My work isn't secret.
But knowing how to weaponize it? Knowing that a dead fish with references to drowning and erosion would hit harder than a generic threat?
That takes intimate knowledge. Personal understanding of what my research means.
What the ocean represents to someone who's spent their entire life studying its power.
"My work is public. Published research, presentations at conferences. Anyone could know I study coastal erosion and marine ecosystems."
"But the personal connection?" Hartwell presses gently. "The depth of understanding to use ocean imagery this specifically. That suggests someone who knows your background, your expertise."
Bruce knew. My mother knows. Mason knows. Colleagues who've heard me talk about growing up on research boats, learning marine biology from my mother before I could spell my own name.
Anyone determined enough could piece it together. Research my background, find my published work, connect the dots between a childhood spent in tide pools and a career devoted to understanding coastal vulnerabilities.
"It's findable. Not easy, but not impossible. Someone who wanted to hurt me would just need to dig."
Hartwell nods, making notes on her tablet. "We'll expand our investigation. In the meantime, Lieutenant Commander Lange will maintain your security detail."
The security detail. Professional language for Holden staying in the guest quarters next door. For protein shakes and morning runs and the wall between us that feels thinner every day.
Hartwell leaves to coordinate with the crime scene techs. Holden stays beside me, unwavering.
"You should eat something. Real food, not just protein shakes."
"Not hungry." The truth. My stomach is too knotted.
"Eat anyway." He steers me toward my apartment, hand light on my back. "You need fuel."
The guidance feels nothing like control. Feels like someone refusing to let me disappear into fear the way Bruce always wanted.
The difference keeps growing. Keeps becoming more obvious. Keeps making me wonder what it would be like if this arrangement wasn't temporary. If Holden wasn't just protection detail but something more permanent.
Dangerous thinking. The kind that leads to hoping for things that can't last. To wanting someone who's probably going to leave when the threat is neutralized and his assignment is complete.
The dead fish is still on my windshield. The threat is still real. Crime scene techs are still photographing evidence of someone's promise that I'm next.
But standing here with Holden's hand light on my back, guiding me toward safety I didn't ask for but desperately need, I make a choice.
I'm too tired to keep running. Too tired to carry this alone. And for the first time in years, I'm going to trust someone enough to let him help.
Even if trusting him means giving him the power to destroy me the way Bruce did.
Even if he's just doing his job.
Even if this ends the moment the threat does.