Chapter 8
Eight
Daphne had spent fifteen years not trusting anyone.
Not after her father died. Not after her marshal partner got a witness killed. Not after the system proved it could be corrupted from the inside.
Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
But watching Asher Morrison come downstairs every morning with damp hair, water droplets sliding down his neck, that sleepy smile—she was starting to realize that not trusting him was becoming harder than trusting him.
Daphne sat at the kitchen table at seven a.m., coffee growing cold. Tablet propped against the sugar bowl, showing Denver Post archives from eighteen months ago. Morning sunlight streamed through the window.
GANG MEMBER FOUND DEAD IN WAREHOUSE
She scrolled up.
WOMAN KILLED IN GANG VIOLENCE
Gemma Morrison, 18, caught in crossfire during drive-by shooting on East Colfax.
The timeline matched. His story checked out.
She’d found these articles in the twenty-four hours after their rainy showdown.
Had read them so many times she could recite them, the blue glow keeping her awake at two a.m. while Asher took watch downstairs. Looking for inconsistencies. Looking for proof he was lying.
Instead, she’d found confirmation.
Still felt like she might be missing something, however.
The article included a photo—young woman with dark hair and a bright smile, wearing a coffee shop apron.
Five and a half years later, the shooter had been found dead in a warehouse. Execution-style.
She’d even contacted Caroline, who’d fished around his file. Yes, Internal Affairs had investigated Asher. Cleared him.
So maybe she should too.
And since then, they’d had two weeks of no incidents. No threats.
Two weeks of Asher Morrison being exactly what he claimed.
Two weeks of watching him keep his word.
Two weeks of learning details she hadn’t expected to notice.
He was allergic to cats. This she discovered when Ruthie’s orange tabby had wandered over last Tuesday. The cat had rubbed against Asher’s legs, purring. He’d bent down and picked her up, cradling her against his chest while he talked to Ruthie about the potluck.
Five minutes later, his eyes started watering. Then the sneezing. Ten minutes of continuous sneezing while he carried Pumpkin back to Ruthie’s house, eyes streaming, nose red.
“I’m allergic to cats,” he’d said afterward, voice nasal.
“You think?” Daphne had said as she’d handed him tissues. “Why didn’t you just put her down?”
“Because Ruthie loves that cat. And we need Ruthie to like us.” Another sneeze. “Cover maintenance.”
He’d looked miserable and kept sneezing for the next hour. She’d made him take Benadryl, and he’d fallen asleep on the couch with his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open. She’d covered him with a blanket.
He took his coffee with sugar and cream. Lots of both. She’d watched him doctor his coffee that first morning, adding spoonful after spoonful, then pouring cream until the dark liquid turned pale tan.
“Don’t judge my life choices.”
“That’s not coffee. That’s candy in liquid form.”
“That’s candy coffee. Best kind.”
So yeah, she’d learned exactly how he liked it. Two spoonfuls of sugar. Cream to the rim. Stirred clockwise three times. She made it for him every morning now without thinking. Watched him take that first sip and make a satisfied sound.
It sort of rumbled right through her, hit her bones.
She was a little like Pumpkin when he did that.
He loved The Terminal List. They’d discovered that last week when Roger had complained there was nothing to watch. They’d watched three episodes together after Roger and Destiny went to bed, sitting on opposite ends of the sectional.
“He’s right,” Asher had said during a violent scene. “When the system fails—sometimes you have to go outside it.”
“Vigilante justice isn’t right.”
“It’s justice the system couldn’t deliver.” He’d looked at her. Expression serious in the television’s glow. “Sometimes that’s the only option left.”
She’d understood what he wasn’t saying. That he’d done exactly what the protagonist was doing. Didn’t mean she agreed. Still, it gave her an insight into his words in the rain. I might be a little dedicated to the cause. No matter what it takes.
That, she could appreciate.
He was a reader. Suspense novels, mostly. Lee Child. Michael Connelly. She’d found him at two a.m. last Thursday during his watch shift, sitting on the sectional with yet another battered paperback.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he’d asked as she came downstairs.
“Wanted tea. What are you reading?”
He’d held up the book. Lee Child.
They’d talked for twenty minutes about Reacher’s moral code. About characters who operated outside the law but inside their own ethical framework.
There seemed to be a trend in his entertainment choices.
He worked out in the garage every morning at five. She’d discovered that accidentally last Monday while taking out the trash. Opened the garage door and froze.
Asher was doing pushups. Shirtless. Skin gleaming with sweat in the early morning light. Muscles defined and flexing. She’d counted without meaning to. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy pushups without stopping.
Hello.
Then he’d moved to the pull-up bar he’d installed on the garage door frame. Pulled himself up. Controlled. Steady. Ten pull-ups. Fifteen. Twenty.
He’d caught her staring. Stopped mid pull-up. Dropped to the ground.
“Sorry. Didn’t think anyone would be up.”
“I was just—” Her voice had come out rough. Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Taking out the garbage.”
“Sorry. I should have done that.”
She gave him a frown, then walked over to the can. “I’m capable of taking out my trash.”
He’d pulled on his shirt. “Yeah. My dad always took out the trash.”
She closed the lid. “I’m happy to abdicate that to you.”
Now she always set the garbage by the garage door and made sure to stay inside until after six thirty.
He went running every morning after his garage workout. And yes, she’d tracked his phone, just curious. Five miles. Same route. Down Aspen Ridge Drive, left on Willow Creek, around the park, back through the neighborhood. Forty-five minutes.
She’d just checked the tracker once. Time to trust him to come back.
And he always did. Winded and flushed, his eyes bright and his T-shirt soaked with sweat.
“Good run?”
“Great run.” Every time. That smile.
Then he’d shower. Come downstairs with damp hair and clean clothes, smelling like soap and shampoo.
And they’d make breakfast together. Coordinating without words.
Him chopping vegetables. Her scrambling eggs.
Moving around each other with practiced ease.
Then, after breakfast, he’d disappear for a nap.
A short power nap while she filed a report to Caroline.
This morning she heard the shower turn off upstairs. Water pipes groaning.
Daphne closed the tablet.
She pulled eggs from the fridge. Bacon from the meat drawer. Bread for toast. Started the coffee maker, the gurgling sound and rich smell filling the kitchen. Cracked eggs into a bowl. Added milk. Whisked them together, the tines scraping against ceramic.
Footsteps on the stairs. She knew those footsteps now.
He appeared in the doorway.
He was too hot for his own good. Dark morning stubble because he hadn’t shaved yet, those gray-green eyes, right now more green in the morning sunlight.
Small scar through his left eyebrow. His jeans hung low on his hips, his gray T-shirt clung to his shoulders and chest. Dark hair, still damp, curled around his ears and at the nape of his neck.
Barefoot. (He even had hot feet.)
And that smile. That morning smile.
“Morning.”
“Morning. Coffee’s almost ready.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Self-protection. You get a little crabby without coffee.”
“Fair.”
Daphne watched the way his hands moved. Capable hands. Scarred knuckles. Long fingers. Hands that had pulled Mark Sullivan from a burning car.
Hands that had killed a man.
“I still don’t understand how you can drink that.”
He took a sip. Made that satisfied sound. “And yet you make it for me every morning.”
Aw, shoot, she did. She turned back to the stove before she started purring.
He moved beside her. Close enough she could smell soap and shampoo—something clean and masculine. Close enough she could feel warmth radiating from his body. Close enough their arms almost touched when he reached for the spatula. “Need help?”
“I’ve got it.”
But he stayed there anyway.
She scrambled eggs. He buttered toast. She plated bacon. He poured juice. Moving around each other in the small kitchen without collision. Without words.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Destiny emerged wearing black yoga pants and a fitted purple top. Hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail. Makeup flawless.
“Good morning.” She poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Morning.” Daphne plated eggs. Steam rose with the smell of butter and bacon.
Roger appeared. Rumpled. Hair sticking up. Still in pajama pants—blue plaid flannel—and an old Denver Broncos T-shirt with a hole near the hem. He grabbed the orange juice jug. Lifted it as if to drink straight from it.
“Roger.” Destiny’s voice, sharp.
He sighed. Grabbed a glass. Poured juice with a grumble.
Then he came to the table and sat down with another sigh.
Talk about crabby.
They ate in relative silence. Three weeks had established a morning routine. Breakfast at seven-thirty. Coffee. Destiny would turn on the news. Then Asher and Daphne would plan the day while Roger and Destiny retreated.
But today, Destiny didn’t retreat.
She set down her coffee cup. “There’s a fall dance tonight. At the community center. Seven p.m. I’d like to go.”
Daphne looked up. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re in witness protection. Because after the potluck, pushing our fortune with a second appearance is the opposite of covert.”
“It’s been two weeks. No incidents. No threats.” Destiny’s voice stayed calm. “If we never leave this house, if we never participate, the neighbors are going to think we’re hostages.”
“We are hostages,” Roger muttered.
Daphne shot him a look. He looked away.
“It’s not safe,” Daphne said.