22. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
The inside of the surveillance van smells like coffee, electronics, and poor life choices.
Which, honestly, describes most of Grayline's operations.
Monitors glow blue in the dim interior. Satellite feeds, traffic cameras, financial records, and cellphone data scroll across various screens while we wait.
Patience has never been my problem. People assume it isn't because I fidget. Because I tap. Because I count. But I can sit on a target for sixteen hours without moving if I need to.
The problem is my brain. It doesn't know how to stop.
A voice crackles over the comms. "Still nothing." Bullet. Calm as always.
"He's late," Wheels says from somewhere down the street. The low rumble of his motorcycle filters faintly through the mic. "I don't trust people who are late."
"That's because you're always late," Bullet replies.
"I arrive exactly when the situation needs me."
"You arrive whenever you feel like it."
"Semantics."
I tune them out. Not because they're wrong. Because my attention is elsewhere.
The operation files sit open on one monitor. A charity director. Children's cancer foundation. Millions of dollars missing. Money meant for sick kids redirected into shell accounts and luxury purchases.
The moment Badger brought us the case, nobody even discussed payment.
We were doing it. Period. Across from me, Badger studies another screen.
Focused. Patient. Waiting. The same way he always does.
My phone buzzes with the reminder I absolutely did not set to check the Gallagher kitchen.
I glance at the time. Then open the Gallagher system.
Badger notices. Unfortunately.
"What are you doing?"
"Making coffee." The answer leaves automatically.
He slowly looks up from his monitor. "You want to try that again?"
I sigh. The kitchen feed appears. Empty. Good. Exactly what I was waiting for. A few clicks later the coffee maker begins its morning cycle. The new bottle of French vanilla creamer sits exactly where it should beside it.
I stare at the screen for a second. Then close the feed.
Badger continues staring. "Keaton."
I don't answer. Which is answer enough.
Then he leans back in his chair. "Want to tell me what's going on?"
I stare at my laptop. At the lines of code. At the financial reports. At literally anything except him.
Unfortunately, he's Matt. Which means he waits. Eventually I cave.
"She's lonely." The words sound ridiculous out loud. Matt doesn't laugh. Doesn't push. Just waits. Again. I hate when he does that. "She doesn't really have anyone." Still nothing. "She's trapped in that house."
Matt nods slowly. "Okay."
I rub a hand over my face. "It's weird."
"What is?"
I immediately regret opening my mouth. All of it. Every bit. Because now I have to explain something I don't understand myself.
"I don't know." The answer comes out frustrated. Honest. "I just..." I stop. Start again. "I keep wanting to make sure she's okay."
Matt's expression doesn't change. Which somehow makes talking worse.
"I know that sounds insane."
"It doesn't."
"It should." I glance out the windshield. "She smiles and I feel better."
The confession hangs in the van. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Mortifying.
"I make her coffee." Matt's eyebrow lifts. I point at him. "Don't."
His mouth twitches. Traitor.
"I make sure she gets time alone.” Still waiting. Still listening. "I just..."
The words come slower now. Harder. Because they're real. "I need to know she's safe."
Matt studies me for several long seconds. Then says quietly, "You care about her."
I immediately shake my head. "No." The answer comes too fast. Too automatic. Matt notices. Of course he does. "Keaton."
"No." I laugh once. Short. Disbelieving. "That can't be what this is."
"Why not?"
"Because—" The word just stops. Refuses to finish itself. The answer should be obvious. Instead it gets tangled somewhere in my chest.
Matt waits. Again. I hate him.
"I saw what happened when you met Rachel." The words leave before I can stop them. "You loved her." Matt's expression softens. Like he already knows where this is going. Which makes me want to jump out of the van. "That's different."
"Why?"
Because it is. Because— "I don't love her.
" The answer comes instantly. Certain. "I just...
" I stop. Then try again. "I have this feeling.
" Matt doesn't interrupt. Doesn't rescue me.
Just lets me keep digging my own grave. "I need to know she's happy.
" The words sound stupid. "I need to know she's safe.
" Worse. "I need to know she's taken care of. "
The silence afterward feels endless. Matt stares at me. I stare back. Then his expression does something alarming.
He looks amused. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
"What?" Before he can answer, the van door suddenly slides open.
Cold air rushes inside. "So help me God—"
Wheels climbs into the van. Stops. Looks between us.
Then points. "Why does everybody look emotional?"
"No one is emotional."
"That sounded emotional." I hate this family. Wheels drops onto the bench across from us. "What are we talking about?"
"Nothing."
"That's a lie."
"It isn't."
"It absolutely is."
Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. Which only makes Wheels more interested. His eyes narrow. Then widen. "Oh my God."
"No."
"Oh my God."
"Wheels."
His gaze swings between us. Then lands on me. "You like somebody."
The accusation is horrifying. I consider throwing him out of the moving van.
"We aren't moving." I realize I said that out loud. Damn it.
Wheels points aggressively. "Look at him! He's spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling."
"You're spiraling."
"I don't even know what we're talking about."
"Neither do I," Wheels says. "But I'm invested now."
I close my eyes. Bad idea, because Wheels keeps going. "Who hurt you?"
"No one."
"Who told you something stupid?"
I open my eyes. Immediately regret it. Because Wheels is suddenly serious. Completely serious. The switch happens so fast it catches me off guard.
"Seriously." His voice lowers. "Who told you that?"
I stare at him. Confused. "What?"
Wheels points at me. "Whatever nonsense you're carrying around."
The van goes quiet. Matt watches me carefully. Too carefully.
The answer slips out before I can stop it. "I'm broken." The words hang there. Heavy. Ugly. Familiar. "I have to be." Nobody says anything. Which only makes it worse. I laugh once. Without humor. "I don't love the way people are supposed to." The words sound pathetic. True. "My ex cheated because—"
"Absolutely not." Wheels cuts me off so fast I blink.
"What?"
"No." He points again. Aggressively. Like he's preparing for violence. "Whoever convinced you of that is getting punched."
Despite everything, a laugh almost escapes me. "Wheels."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"No." He leans forward. Eyes fierce now. Protective. The same way he gets before a fight. "You're the guy who stays awake all night making sure everyone gets home safe."
I look away. "That's different."
"The hell it is."
Before either of us can continue, Bullet's voice crackles sharply through the comms.
All business.
"I have eyes on the target."
The entire van changes instantly. Conversation gone. Emotion gone. Operators again. Matt reaches for his headset. Wheels sits up straight. My laptop fills with new camera feeds. The target steps into view. And just like that, the moment is over.
For now.