Chapter 16
BEA
Do I have enough time to bake a batch of brownies?
I glance at my phone—face up, so I can see right away if any messages come in—and do some quick mental calculations.
If Indy said he was getting on the road an hour ago, then, in theory, he should be back any minute now. When I looked up the directions from Springdale to HQ, that’s what it said, at least.
But if he and Webb get caught in traffic, which is a distinct possibility, he might be longer.
Enough time to bake a batch of those cheesecake swirl brownies he liked so much the first time I made them?
I head over to the fridge to check for ingredients, opening the door and scanning the shelves to see if I have what I need.
Cream cheese? Check.
Eggs? Check.
Moving from the fridge to the cabinets, I find the package of semi-sweet chocolate and lift it to estimate the weight. It feels like plenty, but if I run a little short, I know Eden always has a stash of emergency chocolate at her place.
Even if they’re not done in time, wouldn’t it be nice for Indy to come back to the scent of brownies baking in the oven? All rich and chocolaty and welcoming?
As I look between the cabinet and the fridge, debating, my gaze sweeps across the assortment of food already sitting on the kitchen island—peanut butter cookies, cranberry-brie pull apart bread, cheese crisps, and sweet potato tarts.
Hmm. That is a lot of food already, isn’t it?
And that’s not even taking into account the beer cheese dip, tortilla pinwheels, and mini sandwiches already waiting in the fridge. Or the pulled pork simmering in the slow cooker, ready to be served with the homemade rolls I baked earlier this morning.
So brownies would probably be overkill, wouldn’t they?
But Indy said he loved them. Loved them. And doesn’t he deserve to be treated? Especially after everything he’s done?
Not that I think he expects anything for it. He’s not like that. He doesn’t expect repayment or even thanks for his actions—he just does them because it’s the right thing to do.
But I want Indy to know how grateful I am. Not just that, I want him to know how happy I am that he's back.
We’ve only been apart for two days, but it feels so much longer than that. Maybe because I got used to seeing him all the time; first at B just the two of them waiting to face an unknown enemy. Or enemies, for that matter, because at the time, we didn’t know who they’d end up facing.
Just because I was attacked by one man didn’t mean there couldn’t have been more involved. And Indy and Webb could have been confronted with several dangerous men instead of the one they captured instead.
Manny Davis. It seems like such a harmless name. Manny makes me think of a friendly neighbor who always offers to carry my groceries or a kindly senior who sits at the local diner, drinking cup after cup of coffee and saying hello to everyone who walks through the door.
It doesn’t make me think of a cold-hearted murderer who thought nothing of killing Jenna just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or a man who plotted to kill a veteran who spent twenty-five years defending his country.
Or someone who would frame me for the death of my friend because he thought Jenna told me something.
She hadn’t. Whatever she saw, she never shared it with me. And since Jenna can’t tell us now, we can only speculate about what she actually saw.
Not Manny Davis killing John Adamson, of course.
She wouldn’t have known that’s what he was doing.
All she would have seen was a man wearing scrubs standing beside a patient’s bedside and injecting him with some sort of medication.
Nothing unusual, given the circumstances.
But something about the situation must have struck Jenna as off.
Not enough to go straight to security, but enough to want my opinion about it.
I know now, because while Indy and Webb were wrapping things up in Springdale, Tyler and Ace told me everything they knew.
So what do we know about Manny Davis?
We know he works—well, worked, since he’s currently in jail—on the production line for a factory in Scranton. He’s thirty-six years old, with no close family aside from his mother, who passed away last year, and he’s been on a homicidal mission ever since.
Apparently, Manny’s father was killed in action while serving in the Marines. Decades ago, when Manny was just a baby, Hank Davis was on a mission overseas with his Marine Raider Regiment. Things went south, and Davis was killed, while the rest of his teammates barely made it out.
It’s tragic. But what happened afterwards made things even worse.
Manny’s mother went off-grid, moving to a tiny house in the woods of West Virginia.
She homeschooled Manny and spent the next thirty-two years convincing him that his father had been killed by his traitorous teammates.
And when she died last year, her final plea was for Manny to punish the men who betrayed his father.
So he did. Or he tried to, at least.
Manny started methodically collecting information about his father’s now-retired teammates.
And then he tracked them down, one by one.
First Shane Hammond, owner of a car detailing shop in Binghamton.
Manny went there as a customer and killed Hammond the same way he had Adamson, with a lethal dose of Black Cobweb.
Though it’s terrible that two men died—men who hadn’t betrayed anyone, according to military records—at least Manny was stopped before he could move on to the rest of the team.
It’s a silver lining I’m trying to cling to.
When I think of Jenna and her dreams for a husband and family, about how funny she could be, about those misplaced metaphors and her silly self-deprecating jokes, and the loss feels like it’s closing in on me, I remind myself of the men who were saved.
Of the men who will still get to be fathers and grandfathers because Indy and his team stopped Manny before he killed them.
It hurts, even so.
Add in my conflicted feelings about this all being over, it’s no wonder I’ve been cooking like a dervish. And now I really get it: why my mom baked all the time after my dad was hurt.
At the time, it didn’t make sense. Why was she cooking when my dad was in the hospital? Why was she cooking once he got home when she could have been sitting right beside him, ready to jump up if he needed anything?
But now I get it. Cooking was a way for her to focus on something other than how she was feeling. On her sorrow and worry and anger over what happened to my dad.
I’m feeling the same emotions. And I can’t stop cooking, either.
My phone chimes from the counter, and as I jolt in surprise, the package of chocolate slips from my hands.
A vision of chocolate morsels going everywhere has me diving to catch it, which I do, but not before smashing my hand on the edge of the counter in the process.
“Shit!” I toss the chocolate on the counter and clutch my throbbing hand. I’m not usually one to curse, but crap. That hurt.
With a narrowed glare at the offending chocolate, I decide against the brownies. After all, I have enough food to feed Indy and his friends for weeks.
Just as I’m about to inspect my hand, my phone chimes again.
Then it rings.
“I’m coming,” I tell it sternly. “Just give me a second.”
“Bea? What’s going on in there?” Indy’s worried voice comes through the door. “Bea?” he repeats, more loudly this time. “Are you okay?”
My heart leaps.
Indy!
All thoughts of brownies and sore hands disappear as I hurry to the front door. “I’m coming,” I call out. “One second.”
“Are you okay?” he calls back. “I heard you—shit. Are you hurt? Did something happen?”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “I’m just… these locks…”
“I’m coming in,” he announces. Tension strains his voice. “I have the code.”
“No, I’ve got”—I get the final lock unbolted and yank open the door—“this.”
The moment I see Indy, my gaze devours him.
I knew he was okay. He told me when he called. Tyler and Ace reassured me of it. So did Rafe and Eden, when we got back to HQ last night. Still, there was a niggling splinter of worry I couldn’t get out.
But he looks okay. Unharmed. Safe.
Without warning, tears spring to my eyes. “You’re here.”
“Bea.” He looks me up and down, his attention lingering on my face. His brow pinches with worry. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” I wrap my arms around him and hug him hard. “Nothing happened.”
“Bea.” His voice gentles, but it’s still tense with concern. He hugs me back, then releases me slightly so he can look at my face. “You cursed. And you’re crying.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’m just happy to see you.”