55. Evie
EVIE
The adrenaline leaves me all at once.
One moment, I’m standing in the evidence room staring at my father’s initials.
The next, my knees stop holding me.
Caleb catches me before I reach the floor.
“I have you.”
The words break something inside me.
Not because I’m frightened.
Because I believe him.
He carries me into an empty recovery room despite the stitches in his side and the medic’s orders against lifting anything.
“You’re going to reopen your wound.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Caleb.”
“I’m not putting you down in the hallway.”
He lowers me carefully onto the narrow bed.
Then he sits beside me.
The room is quiet.
No gunfire.
No alarms.
No mountain collapsing over our heads.
Without the danger, there is nothing left to hold back the grief.
“My father knew.”
Caleb doesn’t tell me it will be all right.
He doesn’t offer an empty promise.
He waits.
“He found Archive Seven. He must have known Whitmore was involved.”
My voice shakes.
“Maybe he tried to warn someone.”
“He tried to protect you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what fathers do.”
I look at him.
A shadow crosses his face.
His father’s name was inside the First Circle files too.
“We lost both of them to the same people.”
“Yes.”
“I spent years working in the building where Whitmore planned his death. I trusted men who helped cover it up.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
Caleb’s expression hardens.
“No.”
The force of the word stops me.
“You were his daughter. You loved him. You believed the explanation because the people responsible controlled the truth.”
My eyes burn.
“He gave the eulogy.”
“I know.”
“Whitmore stood beside my mother and told us how much he respected my father.”
Caleb’s hands close slowly into fists.
“He wanted to see what he had done.”
The cruelty of it steals my breath.
A sob escapes before I can stop it.
Then another.
I cover my face.
Caleb pulls me into his arms.
His body is warm and solid around mine.
He doesn’t ask me to be strong.
Doesn’t tell me to stop crying.
He simply holds me while years of hidden grief tear through me.
I grip the back of his shirt.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I want him to see that we found it.”
“He knew you would.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No.”
His hand moves slowly along my back.
“But he raised you to keep looking when everyone else looked away.”
I close my eyes.
My cheek rests against his chest.
His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear.
“He would have liked you.”
Caleb becomes still.
“You think so?”
“You came when I asked for help.”
The memory passes between us.
A dark parking garage.
A pistol in my hand.
A stranger stepping out of the shadows.
Because you asked for help.
I lean back enough to see his face.
“You saved my life.”
His gaze moves over me.
“You saved mine.”
“Then I suppose we’re even.”
“No.”
His thumb brushes away the moisture beneath my eye.
“We aren’t keeping score.”
The words bring a tired smile to my lips.
He learned that lesson before I did.
His hand remains against my cheek.
The air changes.
There are no bullets forcing us together now.
No mission.
No excuse.
Only Caleb.
Only me.
Only the truth we’ve both avoided because wanting something makes it possible to lose.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My breath catches.
“Caleb.”
He leans closer.
Then stops.
Close enough that his breath warms my lips.
“Tell me to stop.”
I place my hand over his heart.
“No.”
His eyes search mine.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He kisses me.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As though I’m something precious rather than fragile.
The first touch of his mouth is tender.
The second holds everything he has refused to say.
Fear.
Relief.
Hunger.
The promise of all the days after.
I slide my arms around his neck and kiss him back.
For the first time since Walter Graves spoke my name in that dark corridor, I don’t feel hunted.
I feel found.