Chapter 5
GWEN
Last night replays in my head during the entire drive to the hospital. The way I told him he was being noble and stupid. The way he just stood there and let me walk away.
I tell myself we need professional distance.
I don't believe myself.
Thatcher drops me at the entrance in his truck. Corporal Martinez is already waiting in fatigues.
"Morning, sir. Doc." Martinez nods to both of us.
Thatcher turns to me. "Martinez stays with you until I'm back."
"I'll be fine."
"I know you will." He holds my gaze. "But Martinez stays."
There's weight in those words. An echo of last night's argument. You can make your own decisions, but I'm still doing my job.
Thatcher's truck pulls away.
"Ready when you are, Doc," Martinez says.
We head through the main entrance together. He's polite, professional, keeps appropriate distance. But he's not Thatcher, and that bothers me more than it should.
My office door is ajar when we reach the administrative wing. I always lock it.
Martinez sees it the same time I do. His hand moves to his sidearm. "Stay back, Doc."
But I'm already pushing the door open. Papers lie scattered across the floor. Desk drawers hang open, contents dumped everywhere. The filing cabinet gapes, folders pulled and tossed. My computer monitor is dark, the tower underneath flickering with a light that shouldn't be on.
My files are everywhere—consultation notes, administrative paperwork, research materials strewn across the floor like trash. The framed diplomas on the wall are crooked. My coffee mug is knocked over, brown liquid pooling across papers on my desk.
This wasn't just a search. This is a message.
"Don't touch anything," Martinez says, already on his phone. "Captain Caine needs to see this. So does NCIS."
I pull out my phone and call Thatcher anyway.
He answers on the first ring. "Gwen?"
"My office was searched. Everything's torn apart."
His voice goes hard and tactical. "Stay out of there. I'm calling Rivera. On my way. Lock the door and wait in the hallway."
"I—"
"Go. Now."
He hangs up before I can argue.
I step back into the hallway, lock the door, and lean against the wall opposite. Martinez positions himself near the door, alert. Hospital staff walk past—nurses heading to morning rounds, residents clutching coffee cups. Nobody looks at me twice.
Whoever did this wanted my documentation. They're looking for what I know, what I can prove.
Someone was in my space, touching my things, looking through my files.
Thatcher arrives faster than I expected, with Rivera close behind. An evidence tech follows them, carrying camera equipment. Martinez steps forward to brief them, then Thatcher dismisses him with a nod.
"Show me," Thatcher says.
I unlock the door and step aside. Thatcher and Rivera enter with the evidence tech behind them. Rivera pulls out her phone immediately and starts making calls. Thatcher comes back to stand next to me in the hallway.
"Anything missing?" he asks quietly.
"I don't know yet. I didn't touch anything to check."
His mouth becomes a hard line. "They're looking for evidence. They know you gave NCIS your documentation, but they want to know what else you have."
His voice drops lower. "We'll go by your place and you can pack a bag. You're staying at my place until this is over."
"Thatcher—"
"They know where you work. They probably know where your apartment is too." His eyes meet mine. "We'll move you to my place. They might not think to look for you there. This isn't a suggestion."
The presumption rankles. After last night, after I called him out for making decisions for me, here he is doing it again.
"You can't just—"
Agent Rivera emerges from the office. "Dr. Abernathy, we'll need you to do a full inventory once we process the scene. Could take a few hours."
"I have patients scheduled."
"Reschedule them." Thatcher's voice leaves no room for argument.
And that's it. The thing that tips me over the edge.
"Don't tell me what's important."
His eyes narrow. "Someone broke into your office."
"Someone broke into my office to search my files. My patients are still alive and need surgery." I cross my arms. "I'm not rescheduling."
"You're a target. You need to—"
"I need to do my job." My voice rises. I don't care that Rivera and the tech can hear us. "You don't get to decide what I do with my schedule."
"When it affects your safety, yeah, I do."
"No, you don't. You're my protective detail, not my commanding officer."
"Protective detail means keeping you alive. Can't do that if you're standing in an OR with your back to a door."
"Then stand outside the OR like you've been doing for three days. But don't tell me to abandon my patients because you think it's safer."
We're facing off in the hallway, voices raised, both of us too stubborn to back down.
Rivera clears her throat. "How long is the surgery, Dr. Abernathy?"
"Two hours. Maybe three."
"Can you do the inventory after?"
I don't look away from Thatcher. "Yes."
"Fine." Rivera nods. "We'll process the scene. You do your surgery. Captain Caine can provide security. We'll circle back this afternoon."
Thatcher's jaw is tight, but he nods once.
Rivera disappears back into my office. The tech follows. And it's just me and Thatcher in the hallway, both of us still wound tight.
"This conversation isn't over," he says.
"Yes, it is. I'm doing the surgery. You can stand outside and glare at people, which seems to be your specialty." I grab my bag. "Are you coming, or do I need to find my own way to the OR?"
His eyes flash with something that might be anger or might be respect. "Lead the way, Doc."
The surgery goes smoothly despite the tension crackling between us. I focus on the patient, on the procedure, on doing my job the way I've always done it. When I emerge two hours later, Thatcher is exactly where I left him.
We walk back to my office in silence. The evidence tech has finished processing. Rivera is waiting with a clipboard.
"Ready to do the inventory?" she asks.
It takes over an hour to catalog everything. The files are all there, just scattered. My computer was accessed but my encryption held. Whoever did this either found what they wanted or didn't find what they were looking for.
By the time we finish, exhaustion is setting in. Thatcher hasn't said a word since the hallway argument. Just stands there, watching, cataloging threats with that tactical brain of his.
"We need to get your things," he says when Rivera finally clears us to leave.
"My things."
"From your apartment. You're moving to my place."
Here we go again. "I didn't agree to that."
"Someone broke into your office. They know where you live."
"Probably. But that doesn't mean I'm moving in with you."
"It's not moving in. It's temporary relocation for safety."
"It's you making decisions for me again." I head toward the parking lot. "Which we just fought about."
He keeps pace beside me. "This is different."
"How?"
"Because your apartment isn't secure. Mine is."
"Your place is base housing. Same as mine."
"Different location. They're looking for you at your address. They won't think to check mine." He opens the passenger door of his truck. "Get in. We're going to pack your things."
"Stop telling me what to do."
"Stop being stubborn about your own safety."
We glare at each other over the truck door. Neither of us backing down.
"Fine," I say finally. "I'll pack a bag. ONE bag. For a few days. Not permanently."
"However long it takes."
"A few days," I repeat firmly. "And I'm driving my own car to your place. I'm not leaving my Range Rover at my apartment for weeks."
He considers that. "You follow me directly. No stops."
"I'm not an idiot."
"Didn't say you were. But you're pissed at me right now, and pissed people make emotional decisions."
"Oh, like you're one to talk about emotional decisions." I climb into the truck. "Let's just go."
The drive to my apartment is silent. I stare out the window, fuming. He's not wrong about the safety concerns. But the way he just decides things, announces them like they're already settled—it makes me want to argue just on principle.
At my apartment, Thatcher clears it first. Draws his weapon, moves through each room. When he gives the all-clear, I push past him toward my bedroom.
"How long do you think this will take?" I ask, pulling a bag from my closet.
"As long as it takes for NCIS to make arrests." He leans against the doorframe, watching. "Could be days. Could be weeks."
"Weeks." I shove clothes into the bag with more force than necessary. "I'm supposed to live out of a bag for weeks."
"You're supposed to stay alive for weeks. The bag is just logistics."
I grab toiletries from the bathroom, my laptop and charger from the desk. "This is ridiculous."
"This is necessary."
"According to you."
"According to the person who broke into your office last night." His voice stays level, patient in a way that makes me want to throw something. "You want to argue about it, fine. Argue. But you're still coming to my place where I can keep you safe."
I zip the bag closed. "You're very used to people following your orders."
"I'm very used to keeping people alive."
"By being bossy and controlling."
"By being direct and not wasting time on arguments that don't matter."
"This matters to me."
"Your safety matters more."
I turn to face him fully. "Stop doing that. Stop deciding what matters more. I get to decide that."
"Not when you're wrong."
"I'm not—" I take a breath. "You know what? Fine. We're going to your place. But we're establishing ground rules."
"What kind of ground rules?"
"The kind where you don't get to make all the decisions. Where we discuss things instead of you announcing them." I grab my bag. "And where you acknowledge that I'm an adult capable of assessing my own risk tolerance."
He's quiet for a moment. "Fair enough."
"Fair enough?"