2. Keaton （Skee） #2
I watched her sedan merge into traffic, then mirrored the GPS feed onto another screen. No escort vehicle. No security following behind. Just her.
Interesting.
The route took her across town before she pulled into a medical complex.
Women's Health Associates.
Routine. Probably. Still...
She parked farther from the entrance than she needed to. Sat inside the car for almost three minutes. Then climbed out wearing oversized sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
My eyes narrowed. Not because sunglasses meant anything. Because she'd looked into the rearview mirror twice before getting out.
Not checking her makeup. Checking behind her.
I rewound the footage. Watched again. Same movement. Same pause.
My fingers are moving across the keyboard before conscious thought catches up.
The clinic's network folded with embarrassing ease. Reception software. Appointment logs. Insurance records. Maeve Gallagher. Nothing. I tried O'Donnell. Nothing.
That was...odd.
I widened the search. Cash payments. Manual entries. Recently archived files. One appointment caught my eye.
Mary Collins.
Cash. No insurance. No listed emergency contact. Age. Height. Weight.
Close enough that my fingers stopped moving altogether. "Huh."
I opened the intake paperwork. Most of it had been scrubbed clean, but whoever entered the information had forgotten to change the metadata attached to the scanned driver's license.
Maeve Gallagher.
Someone had deliberately checked her in under another name.
I leaned back in my chair, studying the screen. There were a dozen innocent explanations. Privacy. Media attention. Old family habits.
Women from powerful families learned early how to disappear when they wanted to.
It didn't automatically mean something was wrong. Still...
I created a new folder.
Maeve.
Not because I needed it. Because something told me I would. My phone buzzed against the desk.
I barely glanced at it before reaching over.
Callum Rizzoli:
We are a go.
A grin pulled at the corner of my mouth.
About fucking time.
My thumbs moved before I'd thought better of it.
Me:
About fucking time.
I hit send, my eyes drifting back toward the folder I'd just created.
Then, after another second, I clicked it open again.
Even though I don't understand why.
***
The Banks dining room table is technically too small for all of us. Rachel insists it “keeps everyone close.”
Wheels insists it’s a tactical hazard designed specifically to start elbow wars. Currently Bullet looks one accidental kick under the table away from homicide.
I sit at the end with my laptop cracked open beside my plate while noise rolls through the room in familiar overlapping layers.
Matt at the head of the table. Rachel stealing fries off his plate despite the fact she has the exact same fries on hers.
Wheels talking too loudly about a chase scene from the other day like he personally directed the operation.
And beside Rachel with a glass of wine in one hand and absolutely no patience left in her body—Sloane Bennett.
“Raymond,” she says flatly, “you almost drove through a Walgreens.”
Wheels points his fork at her. “In my defense, the turn came up fast.”
“You were going ninety.” I remind him.
“It was tactical.”
“It was a red light.” Matt says.
“Those are more like suggestions.” Wheels takes a bite of his pasta and rolls his eyes.
Bullet takes a drink. “That explains a lot about your driving history.”
Rachel laughs under her breath while reaching for the bowl of pasta. “Can we please have one family dinner where nobody admits to crimes?”
“We recovered a kidnapped child,” Matt says.
“And stole a van,” Bullet adds.
“Temporarily borrowed,” Wheels corrects.
I don’t look up from the laptop beside my plate. “You also hit a parking meter.”
“It survived.” Wheels huffs.
“That feels like a low standard.” Bullet murmurs.
Sloane snorts softly into her wine. “I leave town for two weeks and somehow you people are still exactly the same.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Wheels says.
“I say it like I’m shocked none of you have accidentally ended up on a government watchlist.”
There’s a brief pause around the table. Then Matt slowly looks at me. I look back at him. Nobody says anything.
Sloane narrows her eyes. “Why did everyone just go quiet?”
Rachel reaches for her wine. “Don’t worry about it.”
I hide my smile behind my beer bottle.
Across the table, Wheels leans back in his chair, studying me for a second too long. “You know what’s weird though?”
“That you’re still talking?” Bullet offers.
“Shut up. I’m serious.” Wheels points toward me. “This is the first week in months he hasn’t slept at Grayline every night. Only last night.”
The room quiets just enough to annoy me.
I keep my attention on the laptop screen. “The office couch understands me.”
“The office couch smells like beef jerky and depression,” Sloane says.
“It’s accurate,” Bullet mutters.
Rachel’s eyes flick toward me then. Quick. Observant.
A few months ago she would’ve immediately started in on me for overworking, sleeping at the office, isolating myself again. Instead she just watches me for a beat, something thoughtful moving behind her expression before she calmly points her fork toward Wheels.
“Leave him alone.” She says.
Wheels blinks. “I wasn’t attacking him.”
“You were about thirty seconds away from a lecture.” Rachel tells him.
“That feels dramatic.” Wheels clutches his chest.
“You’re dramatic.” Matt hides a grin behind his beer.
I glance at Rachel again, narrowing my eyes slightly. And for one strange second it feels like she knows something I don’t.
Then she just shrugs lightly and goes back to eating.
Weird.
Beside her, Sloane studies the entire exchange over the rim of her wineglass before looking at me. “That’s mildly terrifying.”
“What is?” I ask her.
“The silent communication thing you all do.”
“We were in the military,” Matt says simply.
“That explains literally nothing.” She leans back in her chair.
“It explains the trauma,” Bullet says.
“Again,” Rachel cuts in, “not family dinner conversation.”
I lean back slightly in my chair, letting the noise move around me while my laptop runs surveillance updates beside my plate. The strange part is how normal this all feels now.
None of us are related. Not technically.
But somewhere between deployments, Grayline missions, Rachel patching us up in this kitchen, Matt threatening bodily harm if anyone disappeared for too long, and years of showing up at this table—this became family anyway. Loud. Questionably legal. Violently loyal family.
My phone buzzes beside my plate. Gallagher alert. Instantly my focus narrows.
My thumb taps twice against the side of the phone before I unlock it.
Across the table Sloane watches me carefully for half a second before leaning toward Rachel slightly.
“There,” she murmurs. “That look. That’s what serial killers do before documentaries are made about them.”
Wheels points dramatically. “THANK YOU.”