Chapter 2
Brooklyn Sloane
The under-cabinet lights cast a gentle glow across the polished granite counter, softening the edges of the otherwise darkened room.
The faint illumination skimmed the coffeemaker’s sleek edges and lingered on the curves of two black porcelain mugs, as though the shadows themselves had reached out to cradle them.
The stillness was absolute, yet it carried the brittle tension of glass.
One breath, one shift, and it could all shatter.
The coffeemaker gurgled beside Brook, its steady drip the only sound in the pre-dawn serenity.
The rhythm failed to calm the tightness spreading across her chest, and she had to stem the nausea that seemed to plague her lately.
She stood motionless by the counter, staring at the follow-up report on the search for her brother—more specifically, the last line.
SEARCH FOR WALSH SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY
The bold letters stood out against the subdued paragraphs before it, as if the Bureau needed to emphasize its conclusion.
The official search for Jacob's body in a remote Alaskan ice cave where he'd been presumed dead after a catastrophic collapse had officially come to an end.
Seven months of intermittent exploration had yielded nothing but frustration and frostbite for the recovery teams.
She set the phone face down on the counter.
The FBI’s conclusion meant nothing, and their insistence rang hollow in her mind. Survival was next to impossible, they claimed. And yet Special Agent Russell Houser had made it out alive.
Russell, who'd dragged himself through ice and rock with three broken ribs and a punctured lung.
Russell, who'd somehow managed to reach an area where extraction had been possible despite blood loss and hypothermia.
Russell, whose recovery had been deemed ‘miraculous’ by the same officials who were now confident that Jacob Walsh could not have performed a similar feat.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached from the force. She finally willed herself to relax, one finger at a time, a deliberate exercise to regain control of her emotions.
She believed, despite the Bureau's assertions, the reports, and the logical impossibility of it all…Jacob Walsh wasn’t dead.
She sensed him.
The same way she had as a child.
The coffee continued its rhythmic dripping, each drop hitting the growing dark pool below with a soft plink.
She closed her eyes when warm arms encircled her waist from behind, not startled in the least. She’d heard Graham approaching from the soft rustle of his fleece jogging pants.
She tilted her face, welcoming his soft lips as they pressed against the side of her head.
She allowed herself a brief moment to lean back into his solid warmth.
“I couldn't find my shirt,” Graham murmured against her hair.
She hummed in acknowledgment, her hands automatically moving to cover his where they rested on her stomach. The worn navy t-shirt she wore hung loosely around her frame, the faded Marine Corps emblem stretched across her chest.
“I like wearing it,” Brook admitted quietly, turning slightly in his embrace. “It smells like you.”
Graham's eyes, still heavy-lidded from sleep, studied her face with the intensity she'd come to recognize as concern masked as casual observation. Despite just leaving his bed, there wasn’t a strand of his close-cropped hair out of place.
“They called off the search.”
“Yes.” Brook wasn’t surprised by his perception. “It was only a matter of time.”
“We can touch base with Alex DeSilva. He can send a team in to—”
“No.” Brook turned completely in Graham’s arms, resting her palms on his bare chest. She traced the raised ridge of an old scar, a permanent reminder of Kandahar that she’d touched so many times she could draw it from memory.
“I know how this is going to sound, but I’m comfortable knowing he's out there somewhere.
It's like we've fallen into some old routine, only now I have a better understanding of him. Jacob will seek me out eventually.”
Graham's body tensed against hers, the shift subtle but unmistakable. She could sense the conflict in him. The desire to comfort her conflicted with his instinct to prepare for a threat to her life.
He was a man who'd experienced things most people could only imagine in their darkest nightmares. A man who'd fought wars, carried the weight of lives lost, and yet he carried himself with a quiet strength that never faltered.
He was a protector, a Marine, but also a lover and a friend.
Graham Elliott had become her rock in the storm, her calm in the chaos. His frustration with not being able to control the situation was evident, yet he would respect her decision, even if he didn't agree with it.
His tall, muscular frame was a constant source of warmth and shelter. A barrier between her and the world that sought to break her. His dark eyes held an understanding few could comprehend, mirroring her own hidden torments and fears and acknowledging her pain without judgment.
He was a man of few words, choosing to communicate through his actions. While his silence was disconcerting to some, it always managed to create a sanctuary of peace, allowing her the space to breathe and process.
“When do you need to leave for—”
Out of nowhere, the kitchen door swung open with a rush of cold air, the sudden intrusion preventing Graham from commenting on her honesty or allowing her to finish her inquiry about his upcoming trip.
At first, she thought there might be another emergency with his mother.
Elizabeth Elliott resided in the guest house on Graham’s estate, and she was seven months post-op from undergoing heart surgery.
She’d recovered with the same imperious determination she applied to everything in life.
Only it wasn’t Elizabeth who crossed the threshold as the scent of winter washed away the delicious coffee aroma that had dominated the space just seconds before.
“Arden?” Brook lowered her arms and turned in concern, though she remained close to Graham as her mind struggled for a reasonable explanation as to why one of her team members had entered the premises without invitation. “Arden, what are you…”
Brook let her query trail off as the answer suddenly made itself known. She lifted a hand to her mouth, not wanting Graham to witness her initial reaction after her mind finally connected the dots.
“Oh, dear,” Arden murmured as he shut the door behind him.
He wore striped pajamas beneath his unbuttoned winter coat, the collar turned up against his neck as if he'd dressed in a hurry.
His salt-and-pepper hair stood at odd angles, and his mustache—which normally carried a precise trim—appeared slightly unkempt in the dim light.
“I didn't think anyone would be up at this hour.”
The older man, a former private detective, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Despite his discomfort, there was something endearing about the way he clutched the upper part of his coat closed with one hand, as if trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while standing in Graham's kitchen in sleepwear.
Brook had always appreciated Arden's gentle presence at the office.
He brought genuine sincerity to S&E Investigations, balancing her somewhat hard approach.
He was a grandfather figure who kept actual hard candies in a jar on his desk and loathed using the office's digital filing system, preferring instead his meticulously organized paper records.
His aversion to technology was matched only by his unwavering kindness, which made his current flustered state all the more comical.
“Is Elizabeth alright?” Brook asked after lowering her hand and reaching for Graham’s to encourage him to take a moment to think things through before responding.
“Yes, yes,” Arden replied with a vigorous nod.
He averted his gaze when he realized Brook was standing in the kitchen wearing Graham’s t-shirt and little else.
Arden's face flushed a deep crimson that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. The reaction had nothing to do with the outside bitter temperatures, either. “Liz is just fine. She’s still asleep, but I wanted to make her a cup of her favorite tea before I left for work. She’s out of milk. ”
“I wish I were still asleep,” Graham murmured behind her.
“Please, go ahead,” Brook insisted, squeezing Graham’s fingers in warning. She couldn’t remember a time when she heard anyone call Elizabeth by a nickname. “The milk is on the right-hand side of the refrigerator.”
Brook fought the urge to smile, which wasn’t usually that difficult for her.
But the image of Elizabeth Elliott, with her designer wardrobe and socialite connections, with Arden was shockingly incongruous.
The woman was the polar opposite of him, with his cardigan sweaters and fondness for outdated expressions.
She also had to be at least ten years his senior, though Brook could hardly judge the age gap when she herself was close to twenty years younger than Graham.
“I’ll just grab a glass and—”
“Go ahead and take the carton,” Brook hastily advised him without consulting Graham.
He was still positioned behind her, his entire body rigid in his discomfort with the revelation about his mother's newfound personal life.
“Lacy is due in a couple of hours, and she can add another carton to the list of groceries. Right, Graham?”
Arden had adjusted his coat with as much dignity as he could muster before closing the distance to the refrigerator. He moved with surprising quickness, collecting the milk carton and closing the door almost in one motion.
“Elizabeth is quite particular about her morning routine,” Arden said in an attempt to fill the silence.
Brook bit the inside of her cheek in amusement when she detected vibrations stemming from Graham’s chest. He was doing what he could to suppress his moan of reluctance to the conversation.
“I was just hoping to start her day off right.”
Graham’s moan turned into a resounding groan.
“I’m sure Elizabeth will appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Brook quickly added to bring this awkward exchange to an end. “Please tell her good morning for us.”
By this time, Arden had retraced his steps back to the door. She closed her eyes briefly when he didn’t immediately leave the house, not picking up on her cues the way she would have liked.
“I almost forgot,” Arden said, reverting to his usual professional tone when their current situation was anything but. “You have that appointment with the Hartmans this morning at nine. About their daughter's case.”
“Thank you, Arden.”
He nodded, offered a small, slightly embarrassed smile, and slipped out the door.
The coffeemaker sputtered its final drop right as the door closed, the machine’s timing perfect given the circumstances.
She turned to face Graham, only to find that he had lifted his other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
She patted his chest in reassurance, prompting him to finally speak, his voice a mixture of resignation and disbelief.
“I should have stayed in bed.”