Chapter 11
Eleven
Asher lay in bed at midnight, staring at the ceiling and replaying the moment by the barn when he’d almost kissed Daphne Cross.
The way she’d looked at him, green eyes catching the last light of sunset. The way her breath had caught when he’d stepped closer. The way time had seemed to stop when his eyes dropped to her lips.
The way he’d wanted to close that distance. Wanted to stop lying for just one moment and show her something true.
And because of what he’d said: “No matter what happens, no matter what you find out, no matter what comes next—you can trust me.”
He’d meant it. But the words had come out wrong. Had sounded ominous instead of honest.
And then he’d almost kissed her anyway. Had leaned in despite the lie.
He didn’t know what had stopped him, really. A tug, a nudge…
Honor?
Kissing her while lying felt wrong. Because taking something from her under false pretenses felt like betrayal.
But lying in bed unable to sleep—ribs aching where stitches pulled, forearm throbbing, head pounding—Asher realized stepping back had been just another lie.
It’d probably made her think he didn’t want her.
So he needed to tell her everything. Tonight. Now.
Asher got up, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Moved carefully—everything hurt.
Then he went downstairs in darkness. The house was quiet. Just the sound of the creek outside and wind through pine trees. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet.
His office was at the back of the house. Past the kitchen. Past the living room with its massive fireplace. Past the windows looking out at mountains dark against a star-filled sky.
Asher opened the door. Flipped on the light.
Wood paneling. Built-in bookshelves on two walls. A heavy oak desk—handcrafted, the kind that lasted generations. Leather chair. The room smelled of old books and leather and furniture polish.
And books. Hundreds of them, filling the shelves. Some his. Most his father’s.
Westerns. Zane Grey and Elmore Leonard. The complete collection of Louis L’Amour novels. Stories about men who kept their promises. Who protected the weak. Who stood up for what was right.
Men his father had probably wanted to be but never was.
He moved to the desk. Sat. Opened the bottom drawer where he kept everything locked away.
Files. Recordings. Photographs. Financial records. Eighteen months of evidence against the Shadow Syndicate. All of it documented. All of it proof that Asher Morrison had been gathering intelligence. Had been building a RICO case.
Proof that he wasn’t the enemy, despite what the rumors inside the FBI might be.
Proof that might make her understand.
Or might make her hate him for lying.
He stood. Moved toward the door. She’d agreed to stand first watch, given his injuries today.
The kitchen light was on, casting a warm glow across hardwood floors. The smell of coffee brewing—rich and dark—hung in the air.
Daphne stood at the counter, her back to him. Hair down around her shoulders instead of pulled back. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Pouring coffee into a mug.
She must have heard him, because she turned. “You okay?”
“No.”
She frowned. “You took a hard hit today.”
Yeah, that wasn’t it.
She poured him a mug of coffee, held it out to him.
Asher took the mug. Their fingers brushed. Brief, but her touch could just turn his entire body electric.
He blew out a breath and backed away. “Thanks.”
They stood there, coffee steaming between them. The house quiet around them. Just the two of them awake while Roger and Destiny slept upstairs and the world outside was dark and still.
“I saw the light under your office door,” she said finally. “Were you working?”
Yes. No. “I was looking at some files.”
“I was in your office earlier—quite the bookshelf you have in there.”
“Did you see the safe room?”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
They walked down the hallway, and oh, but a terrible awareness hummed between them.
For a second, there she was, in memory, nearly in his arms.
He blew out a breath and opened the office door.
Daphne stepped inside.
He felt a little like Tony Stark when he went around his desk, felt underneath it, and pushed the button.
The door to the safe room unlocked. She pushed it open. “A bed and a refrigerator.”
“Four monitors, same as the ones in the office, and its own power supply. Enough food for two weeks.”
“You built this?”
“No. It came with the house. The guy before me was a little…paranoid.”
“I like it.”
He liked her.
He pointed to a closet as he went out. “The gun cage.”
“Of course.”
He closed the door.
She was surveying the bookshelf.
“Would you like to borrow one?”
Oh, wow, that was lame. He hadn’t realized he was such a coward until this moment.
Her eyes scanned the titles, landing on the Louis L’Amour collection.
“Wow,” she said quietly. “Someone loves Westerns.”
“My dad.”
She moved closer to the shelves. Ran her fingers along the spines. Careful. Respectful. “Complete collection?”
“Yeah. Bought each one as it came out. He read them over and over. When he died, I inherited them.”
Daphne pulled one down. Hondo. She flipped through pages, the old paper making soft rustling sounds. “I’ve never read these,” she said. “My dad was more of a thriller guy. Tom Clancy. Robert Ludlum.”
“These are good. Simple. Clear moral lines. Good guys and bad guys. Right and wrong. No gray areas.”
Daphne looked at him. “I’m learning life isn’t that simple.”
“I’m wishing it was.”
She turned back to the book and read the back cover. “Your dad. Tell me about him.”
This wasn’t the conversation Asher had planned. But maybe she needed to understand his father to understand him.
“He wanted to be a good man,” Asher said slowly, “but couldn’t be. He loved us. Me and Gemma. But he also loved himself more. He wasn’t faithful to my mother. He couldn’t keep his promises.”
The words emerged a little harder than he’d expected.
“They got divorced when I was thirteen,” he continued.
“We started this life of hopping between homes. I hated it, and Gemma was so young she was just confused. And Mom and Dad would fight over us all the time. Sometimes…well, things would get messed up. When I was about fourteen—Gemma was in first grade—my dad was supposed to pick us up after school. My mom had to go out of town for work. I don’t know what happened, but he didn’t show up.
Gemma and I waited. Watched all the other kids get picked up.
Teachers left. I took her over to the playground to entertain her, and somehow the school locked up without seeing us. ”
She was watching him now, concern in her eyes. It did something to his chest—filled it, turned it warm.
“We finally sat on the steps while it got dark, just waiting.”
“He never came?”
“No. We didn’t have phones. So we finally walked home.
The house was locked, so I broke in through the basement window.
We crawled inside. But our basement was an unfinished, unheated dirt cellar, and Mom kept the door locked.
So there we sat all weekend until she finally came home on Sunday night.
In November,” Asher said, rolling the empty mug between his palms.
“It was cold. And Gemma was scared and…anyway, I still can’t take the smell of old basements.”
“That’s terrifying for a little kid.”
“Yeah, and then I started having this crazy recurring nightmare where I’m buried alive.”
“It’s understandable.”
“Yeah, well, the night terrors got so bad my mom sent me to our pastor for counseling. He said it was about being betrayed. About my dad not showing up.” Asher shrugged. “Point is—my dad wanted to be good. But he wasn’t. He loved us, but left us anyway. He made promises he couldn’t keep.”
He looked at Daphne. “I don’t want to be him. Don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. Don’t want to say I love someone and then abandon them.”
“My dad made promises too,” Daphne said quietly. “To come home. To be safe. To listen to his instincts.”
She set the book down on the desk. Moved to the window. Looked out at darkness and stars and mountains invisible beyond the glass.
“He was a good cop. A great cop. Everyone said so. But he—he didn’t always listen. Got caught up in the chase. In being the hero. In proving he could get the bad guy.”
Her voice was steady, but Asher heard the pain underneath.
“There was a robbery. Suspects fled on foot into Southwold—bad neighborhood, gang territory. Protocol said wait for backup. But Dad—he went in anyway. Chased them. Alone. And—” She paused. Breathed. “He was shot. Killed. By one of the gang members protecting the suspects.”
“Daphne—”
“I was sixteen. At home doing homework. And the police arrived at our door with the news. And our whole life just…ended. Right there.” She turned. “Because he just had to be the hero.”
And he heard the echo, of course. Her words from that first day.
He couldn’t move.
“My mom couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t go to the funeral. Couldn’t see the grave. Couldn’t stay in the city where he’d died. We moved to Washington State three days later. Left everything. My friends. My school. My whole life. Because she couldn’t breathe in the place where he’d made that choice.”
She turned back to the window. “I tried to stop by the cemetery when I got here, to see his grave, but…I’m as bad as she was. I just…you know. Can’t say goodbye.”
And now he did move. Stepped up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away.
“I was so angry for such a long time. In my head, I felt like he’d promised to come home, and he’d broken that promise by crossing the line, by chasing suspects alone into gang territory without backup.”
“He was doing his job.”
“Was he?” Daphne turned to face him, and he stepped back. “He made a choice. He knew the risk. He did it anyway. And it cost him everything. Cost us everything.” Her eyes had filled. “And I had to figure out how to forgive him for that.”
“Have you?”