8. Chapter 8
Cole
Kara sleeps. Not peacefully, exactly. Not the deep, loose sleep of someone who trusts the walls around her.
Twice during the night, I hear movement from her room.
Once, water running in the bathroom. Another time, the soft creak of her bedroom door opening, followed by the quieter sound of it closing again when she sees me awake in the chair facing the hall.
She doesn’t say anything and neither do I.
By dawn, the cottage feels like it has survived the night with us.
I’ve spent nights in worse places, with worse odds, and less reason to care what happened to the person sleeping behind a closed door.
That last part is the problem. I care. Not enough to make me sloppy.
But enough that I notice the faint lavender scent of her shampoo when she passes me.
Enough that I remember the way she looked in the kitchen last night, safer with a pan in her hand than she’d been with three security professionals in the room.
When her bedroom door opens again just after seven, I stand before I think better of it. She appears in the doorway wearing soft gray lounge pants and a loose white shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair is tangled, her face bare, and there’s a sleep crease along one cheek.
Some women look smaller in the morning. Kara looks real.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“Some.” Her gaze moves to the chair. “Did you?”
“Some.”
“That means no, doesn’t it?”
“It means enough.”
“That also means no.”
I almost smile. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Unless you think coffee is too much flavor and prefer chewing roasted beans directly.”
“Oh, you are awake.”
“I’m here … barely.”
I make coffee because it is one of the few kitchen tasks I can perform without offending a professional. Kara stands at the island, phone in hand, reading silently. Her thumb moves over the screen once, twice, then stops.
“Vanessa?” I ask.
She glances up.
“She’s been texting since six.”
“Concerned?”
“Yes.”
The word is automatic, but something in her expression tells me concern can be heavy when delivered often enough.
She turns the phone toward me without handing it over.
Did you sleep? I barely did. Please tell me the security people are still there. Honey, I’m worried about your anxiety more than anything right now.
Anxiety? I don’t react to the word, but I file it away. Not because it’s wrong. Kara is anxious, and she has reason to be. But naming a person’s fear too quickly can be a kindness, or it can be a leash. Sometimes both.
“She wants me to call,” Kara says.
“Then call.”
“You don’t need to stand there listening.”
“I’m making coffee.”
“With Navy SEAL ears.”
That stops me. I haven’t mentioned the Teams. Sloane may have. Or Kara put together enough on her own.
“Former,” I say.
Her brow lifts. “Do you all ever believe that?”
“No.”
That earns me a real smile, small but real, and I take it because I’m not stupid enough to waste rare things.
The video call comes through before she can decide what to do. Kara hesitates only a second before accepting it and propping the phone against the fruit bowl.
Vanessa’s face fills the screen, warm and animated, hair pulled back, gold earrings swinging as she leans closer to the camera.
“Oh, thank God.” Her voice spills into the kitchen like she’s trying to fill all the spaces fear might have claimed. “There you are. I was about five minutes from driving there myself.”
Kara gives a tired laugh. “Please don’t. You have a restaurant to run.”
“Restaurants are overrated. Best friends are not.” Vanessa’s gaze flicks slightly. “Is someone there with you?”
Kara looks toward me.
I turn back to the coffee maker, giving her the choice.
“Yes. Sunbreak Security has someone here temporarily.”
“Good.” Vanessa exhales hard, and the relief sounds genuine. “Good, good, good. I hate this, but I’m glad you’re not alone.”
“Me too,” Kara says quietly.
The words do something I don’t let show.
Vanessa’s expression softens into something almost maternal. “How bad was last night after we talked? Be honest.”
Kara wraps both hands around the mug I set in front of her. “Bad. But better after everyone got here.”
“And now?”
“Still bad.”
“That makes sense. Your nervous system is in full-blown alarm mode. You can’t expect it to settle just because you’re somewhere pretty.”
Kara looks down into her coffee. “I know.”
“Have you thought about calling Dr. Vale?”
“I haven’t seen him in over a year.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t call him now.”
“I’m not sure this is therapy-worthy.”
Vanessa’s face changes, becoming firmer in a way that probably works on Kara more often than Kara realizes.
“Honey, a stolen knife and creepy text message are absolutely therapy-worthy. Call Dr. Vale. Not because you’re falling apart. Because you’re trying so hard not to.”
Kara lets out a long breath.
I don’t like the idea of some man who knows private pieces of her being pulled into this, which is not rational, professional, or helpful. I don’t like it anyway.
“He might not even have an opening,” Kara says.
“Then you leave a message. Or you call someone else. Or you call me. I’m always willing to be your therapist too, even if the state of Florida remains weirdly stubborn about licensing.”
Kara laughs. The sound is soft and tired, but real.
“There she is,” Vanessa says, smiling. “I missed her.”
Missed.
One ordinary word, but after the knife photo, I hear it differently.
Miss You.
Kara doesn’t seem to. She only shakes her head, affection loosening her expression. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And useful.”
“Debatable.”
“Rude, considering I found you the beach house and bullied you into resting.”
Kara’s eyes glance toward me for a split second, then back to the screen. “Yes. You did.”
“Call him,” Vanessa says, gentler now. “Promise me.”
“I’ll reach out.”
“Today?”
“Yes. Today.”
They talk for another few minutes. Nothing important on the surface. Restaurant drama. A supplier issue. Someone named Marco who apparently believes garnish can fix a bad crab cake. Kara laughs twice, and each time Vanessa looks satisfied, like she has successfully pulled her back from an edge.
When the call ends, Kara stares at the blank phone screen and appears to be typing a text message.
“She cares about you,” I say.
“She does.”
“Do you need to talk to a therapist?”
Her gaze lifts. “Dr. Vale?”
“Yeah.”
“I used to.”
“That’s not yes.”
She takes a sip of coffee, buying herself time. “He helped me through a rough stretch after my streaming audience exploded. I started getting recognized everywhere. Nothing dramatic. I just … needed help learning how not to read every comment, answer every demand, and work myself into the ground.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It was.”
“Maybe calling him makes sense.”
She studies me over the rim of her mug. “That almost sounded like approval.”
“It was.”
“Careful. I might start thinking you’re emotionally evolved.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Her smile comes easier this time, and for a second, the morning feels almost normal. Coffee. Ocean. A woman teasing me in a kitchen. Then her phone buzzes with a notification. Kara reads it, and the change in her is immediate.
“Dr. Adrian Vale has an opening at ten-thirty.”
“That was fast,” I say.
“He does telehealth between regular sessions sometimes.”
“Good.”
She doesn’t answer.
At ten-twenty, she carries her laptop to the bedroom.
I look up from my tablet where I’ve been reviewing the perimeter map Sloane sent. “Want me outside the door or in the main room?”
Her fingers tighten on the laptop. “Neither.”
The answer comes too quickly. I go still. She hears it too, because color rises faintly in her cheeks.
“I mean, I’d like privacy. Actual privacy.”
“I wasn’t planning to listen.”
“I know.”
But she doesn’t know. Not really. And something about that irritates her, or embarrasses her, or both.
“It’s therapy,” she says. “I don’t want to feel like I have an audience.”
“You don’t.”
“Cole.”
My name in her voice is soft, but firm enough that I understand this is a boundary, not a request.
I nod. “I’ll be on the front landing.”
“You don’t have to leave the cottage.”
“I know.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.”
Her expression transforms into something I can’t name. Gratitude, maybe. Or guilt. “Thank you.”
I step outside before she can feel worse about asking.
The morning heat is already gathering beneath the raised cottage, warming the crushed-shell drive and lifting the smell of damp wood from the outdoor shower below.
I take position on the landing beside the door, close enough to hear if she calls out, far enough that her voice becomes nothing but a low murmur through walls and glass.
I don’t like closed doors when I’m responsible for what’s behind them. I like this one even less. That isn’t about the job. That’s about the man on the other side of her screen.
Dr. Adrian Vale.
I search the name on my phone because I’m not above being practical when I’m irritated.
Licensed psychologist. Orlando. Trauma, anxiety, performance stress, high-profile clients.
Clean website. Calm face. Expensive haircut.
The kind of man who probably says things like let’s sit with that and gets paid four hundred dollars an hour for it.
I have no reason not to like him. That doesn’t help. This is crazy. I don’t know why I feel so possessive of Kara.
Through the wall, Kara’s voice rises slightly, then breaks off. I can’t make out the words. I make myself step down one stair.
Boundaries matter. So does staying alive. There’s the balance. My phone vibrates and it’s Sloane.
I answer quietly. “Navarro.”
“Morning update,” she says. “Burner number that sent the knife photo was activated in Orlando.”
My gaze shifts toward the dune path, then the road. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Any purchase location?” I ask.
“Convenience store near the edge of downtown. Cash. Rafi’s trying to get footage, but don’t hold your breath. That may be difficult.”
“Who is on the list of possibles?”
“Everyone is on the list.”
That’s Sloane. He’s careful, with no unnecessary comfort.
“Kara called Vanessa this morning,” I say. “Friend suggested she contact an old therapist. Dr. Adrian Vale. Male. Orlando.”
“Concerned?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then find out.”
From inside the cottage, Kara laughs. It’s muffled by walls and distance, but I hear it anyway.
Not the tired laugh she gave Vanessa. Not the startled one she gave me.
This one sounds smaller. Sadder. Like someone touched an old bruise and didn’t press too hard. For some reason, that bothers me more.
“Sloane,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Run Vale.”
“I already am.”
Of course he is. The line goes quiet for a moment.
Then Sloane says, “Don’t make this personal, Cole.”
I look toward the closed bedroom door I can’t see from here but feel anyway.
“Trying not to,” I say.
Sloane exhales. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
The call ends, and I remain on the landing with the ocean moving behind the dunes and Kara’s private voice sealed away inside the cottage.
I tell myself the closed door is fine. I tell myself privacy is healthy. The therapist is probably exactly what she needs.
Then I look toward the road, the beach path, the rental houses, every place a threat could hide in plain sight, and accept the simpler truth.
I don’t like being outside any door that separates me from Kara Stone. Not anymore.